Outrunning Destiny
by Fiddler55
Summary: Steve and Jesse go on a quest to prove a point and discover a lot more than they expected. Occurs after “Seal Song” in the general scheme of things.
1. Road Trip

Disclaimer: The characters of Mark Sloan, Steve Sloan, Amanda Bentley, Jesse Travis and Cheryl Banks do not belong to me but to CBS, Viacom et al. All other individuals are once again the product of my own undisciplined imagination, and any dubious resemblance to any living person is totally spurious and unintentional.

Rating: T (drama, intense situations, some mildly suggestive language/situations, some unavoidable violence).

Summary: Steve and Jesse go on a quest to prove a point and discover a lot more than they expected. This follows "Seal Song" in the progress of things, in a direction I chose to pursue with whatever poetic license I can carry with me.

Many thanks to my friends Marla (for the initial spark of life), Christi, Ellen, and Mary (for unashamedly participating in helping her badger me into finishing); to Sam Singing Wolf for providing the first home for it; and to all of my other DM friends who have offered their appreciation and encouragement. You all are the best.

Cheryl Banks hid a smile as Steve Sloan pulled into a parking spot in front of BBQ Bob's, but not quickly enough. "What?" her partner inquired suspiciously, continuing to badger her as they walked in and ordered their respective lunches. She was able to fob him off until she had finished her chicken sandwich, by which point pathologist Amanda Bentley had joined them as well as Jesse Travis, Steve's partner in the successful enterprise. Convinced Cheryl would have to give him some sort of response if he persisted with their friends present, Steve tried again.

"So what was that little smirk as we came in about, Cheryl?" he asked winningly.

Cheryl looked amused. "You are so predictable about some things, Steve."

This wasn't quite what he had expected. "I am not predictable! How can she say a thing like that?" he demanded aggrievedly, turning to the intrigued doctors with a pleading look.

Like a good best friend, Jesse rushed to Steve's defense. "Cheryl, Steve isn't predictable. Just because he likes to eat here most of ---" His voice trailed off as he realized his contribution was probably less than helpful.

Amanda, on the other hand, twinkled at Steve mischievously. "At least she didn't accuse you of being stuck in your ways, Steve," she said provocatively.

Steve glared at them both. "Fat lot of help the two of you are." He turned the puppydog look Cheryl swore she hated on her. "C'mon, Cheryl," he wheedled. "Admit it. I'm incredibly spontaneous."

Jesse choked on his soda as Cheryl and Amanda both burst into gales of laughter, the object of their hilarity finally losing his cool and starting to flush. Seeing the red seep upwards from Steve's collar, Cheryl finally took pity on him. "I'm sorry, Steve. But the look on your face --" She was nobly trying to suppress her giggles, and he unbent slightly, trying again once the women had caught their breath, although Cheryl was still hiccuping occasionally.

"Okay, partner. You've had your fun -- now tell me why you think I'm predictable."

She leaned forward, elbows on the table, smiling at him affectionately. "Because, partner mine, today is Tuesday."

"So what's that mean?" Jesse asked.

"Every Monday and Thursday, we have lunch at Oriental Garden. Tuesday and Friday, we eat here. On Wednesday, we stop off at that hot dog stand so Steve can get his weekly chili dog fix. I can always be sure of the day of the week by where Steve points the car at lunchtime." She spread her hands and shrugged. "Need I say more?"

Amanda was laughing again. "She's got you on that one, Steve."

Grudgingly, he conceded the point. "Okay. About lunch, maybe. But how you can make such a sweeping statement based on my lunch preferences --"

Cheryl looked slightly uncomfortable suddenly, and he realized belatedly that the conversation might have been better conducted between the two of them alone. But he had dragged the others into it, and he couldn't think quickly enough of any sufficiently tactful way to get out of it now. He took a breath and squared his shoulders. "Okay. Is this that control thing again?"

Amanda started to fuss with her purse, a sure sign that she had seen through him and was about to remove herself, as well as Jesse in all likelihood, and Steve suddenly decided that he wanted to hear their opinions. "Please, Amanda, Jess, don't go. I'd like to know what you think."

Amanda looked dubious, but Jesse, typically, had no such qualms. "Sure, buddy. Any time. Er -- what I think about what?"

Steve grinned. Jesse he could undoubtedly depend on to support his position. "Cheryl's theory is that I have a pathological distaste for the idea of blind exploration, and/or getting lost, because it most likely requires relinquishing control."

"And Steve insists it's just a need to be sensibly organized and nothing more," his partner supplied blandly.

It occurred to Jesse that control was an element which had been glaringly lacking in Steve's life over the past year or so, but somehow he had the instinctive feeling that this particular sentiment was not what his best friend and business partner wanted to hear. Even if he agreed with Cheryl to a certain extent, especially where running Bob's was concerned. Steve could be a little -- His train of thought derailed as he realized that they were all looking at him expectantly. "Well," he temporized, "it's not so much a control thing as, well, you know, guys aren't supposed to get lost, really, it's a guy thing, and --"

Amanda reached over and smacked him lightly. "Jesse! Quit avoiding the issue!" She smiled at her favorite LAPD detective. She loved him like a brother -- and he could be just as exasperating at times. "Cheryl's right, Steve. You're just not comfortable with the idea of the unknown or the unforeseen. It's understandable, but there you are."

Steve's eyebrows started to descend, always an accurate indication of his mood. "This isn't funny any more, guys. I can't believe you all think I intend to stick myself in a rut because -- because of what happened months ago."

Jesse dove in hastily. "Steve, I don't. Really." The look on his friend's face was killing him; he had to do something to reassert male solidarity and fortitude. "Hey, buddy, I've got an idea. How about you and me, we pack up your truck this weekend and see if we can find some fishing, campground, we've never been to before?"

Steve scowled. "Jess, for you, that's most of them."

Jesse's face fell. "Aw, Steve, you know what I mean. Off the beaten path. We follow a road we haven't been down before." He glanced at Amanda, who was having a very difficult time concealing a very broad grin. "You know, show these womenfolk that we're willing to forge into the unknown and conquer it," he continued, steadfastly ignoring the very unladylike snorts of laughter emanating from the womenfolk in question.

Steve was initially inclined to agree with them; those particular outdoor pursuits were not exactly high on the list of Jesse's normal or even natural amusements, and previous attempts had produced rather mixed, if not semi-disastrous, results. But he had to admit the younger man had a valid point. And, besides, the "adventures" he had experienced of late had really come looking for him rather than the other way around; at least now he'd be pursuing one instead. He supposed the distinction might be considered a rather fine one, and one his father would most likely question, but the pleading look in Jesse's eyes and his own reluctance to admit the possibility that Cheryl was right decided him. He dumped the rest of his iced tea down his throat and set the glass down on the table with a definitive thump. "You're on, Jess," he declared with a certain sense of self-satisfaction. "This weekend it is."


	2. Finding Destiny

"You know, Jess," Steve said a few days later, as they tooled north on I-5, "this wasn't a bad idea. Even if we don't succeed in getting lost, it's good to get away for a while."

"Right," Jesse agreed earnestly. "Back to nature, one with the earth."

Steve laughed. "Don't push it, Jess. Your idea of getting back to nature is opening the windows in your condo." He gave his partner an amused look. "Admit it -- you were trying to hold up the side in the face of so much estrogen."

"Okay, okay," Jesse conceded, throwing in the towel. "So where are we going, anyway?"

Steve considered briefly. "I was thinking of the north national park area, Shasta, maybe Klamath, depending on the weather."

"Are they expecting rain?" Jesse asked, scowling as Steve chuckled. "What's so funny?"

Steve relented. "This time of year, it's not that unusual to get early snowstorms up here."

"What?" Jesse yelped. "Hey, when I said back to nature, staying dry and warm was still supposed to be part of the deal!"

His partner gave him a look. "I didn't say we would get one. I just said it wouldn't be unusual. You want to head back?" he added wickedly.

"No," Jesse declared stoutly. "I said I'd do this, and I mean it. We'll show the girls!"

They had driven about ten minutes north of the picturesquely named town of Weed when the opportunity for adventure presented itself. A sign appeared indicating the road ahead was closed, with a detour sign right behind. Steve followed the alternate route until it came to a dead end at an intersection unhelpfully devoid of any signage whatsoever. He glanced in each direction, then at Jesse, and shrugged. "Any preferences, Jess?"

Jesse peered out in his turn, equally unenlightened. "Uh -- that way," he replied, pointing left.

"All right," Steve said. "So much for being unwilling to venture into the unknown!" he added with a certain degree of smugness, as he completed the turn and started to pick up speed again, firmly ignoring the immediate little tingling of warning in his stomach.

It was a pretty little road, although it twisted and turned repeatedly, until neither of them was totally confident about in which direction it was heading. The tingle was doing its best to become a distinct feeling of alarm, despite Steve's deliberate attempt to ignore it, when the road squirreled its way through a series of small canyons and then opened up into a miraculously straight, reasonably well-paved highway. Noting the posted speed limit of 65mph, Steve let his truck have its head.

Jesse was gazing at the snow-capped ridges around them. "So where are we now?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," Steve admitted. "I think that last series of turns did it." He grinned. "Okay, Jess, you're my witness. You can tell Cheryl that I managed to get lost and haven't panicked yet." His intuition made another stab at making itself heard, but was stoutly rebuffed as Steve spotted another sign. "And now I know where we are; we're two miles away from Destiny, wherever that is." He laughed at the suddenly hopeful expression on his friend's face. "Jess, it's probably a one-horse town without even a decent watering hole. I wouldn't get my hopes up if I were you."

Jesse scowled. "Nothing wrong with being optimistic, you know."

Steve was still chuckling as another speed limit sign hove into view, and he swore suddenly, hitting the brakes.

"What's the matter?" Jesse asked, startled.

Steve's face was grim. "That was insane. 25mph limit with no warning from 65, with no sign of civilization yet." He glanced around. "I'd say this has speed trap written all over it, but that decrease is criminal."

Jesse heard it first. "Uh, Steve -- I think you're going to get your chance to tell them that."

"Damn straight I will," Steve said angrily, seeing the blue lights and slowing to a stop on the roadside. He waited impatiently as a sheriff's SUV pulled up behind them and a stocky figure emerged, strolling toward them.

The deputy's eyes flickered over Jesse and focused on Steve as he was handed license and registration. "Don't know you boys. Traveling through?"

Steve felt the tingle of apprehension again. This guy should already have pulled up his tag information. "Yes. Actually, we were heading north on 97 but hit a detour."

An odd look slid across the deputy's face, too quickly for Steve to identify it. "You're technically within the city limits of Destiny. Which brings us to the point of this exercise." He gave Steve a hard look. "Any idea how fast you were going, son?"

Steve wasn't biting. "Sixty-five, the posted limit, when I saw that sign, and I slowed down as safely and quickly as I could."

The deputy ignored the latter half of Steve's response. "I clocked you at sixty when you entered the reduced speed zone, son. That's a pretty stiff fine."

"Wait a minute!" Jesse interjected. "He slowed down, in fact, he slammed on the brakes; we're lucky we didn't have anyone behind us!"

The deputy shrugged and turned his attention back to Steve. "We charge ten bucks a mile. Cash, no checks, no credit cards." He held out his hand. "That will be $350, Mr. Sloan."

Steve was appalled. "You people stage this potentially fatal speed trap and then have the unmitigated gall to charge usurious amounts, cash no less? Someone should report you to the state! And it's Lieutenant Sloan," he growled, reaching for his ID.

And found himself staring at a gun barrel. "Why don't you get out of the vehicle before you pull that out, son," the deputy suggested blandly.

Steve lifted his empty hands into the officer's clear view, but didn't budge otherwise. "I'm just getting my police ID," he pointed out mildly.

Neither the gun nor the deputy stirred. The only things moving were the man's cold eyes as they slid towards the side, followed by a tiny lift of the chin in the same direction. "I said out. I suggest you do it now."

Their eyes locked momentarily; then Steve shrugged and opened the truck door. As he started to slide one leg out, he felt a beefy hand grab his shoulder and yank, and only quick reflexes and the sneaking suspicion his new acquaintance would try such a stunt kept him from crashing to the ground. Instead, he reached for the other man as he fell sideways, ducking as he heard the whistle of air from the gun's downward swipe. It immediately became apparent that this was one of the deputy's favorite games. He reversed his grip in one fluid movement, still evading Steve's outstretched arms, and struck him at the base of the neck where shoulder and neck muscles meet. Steve fell back, right hand clutching his useless left arm, temporarily stunned by the flash of agony followed by an immediate painful tingling.

The gun was leveled at him again, motioning towards the side of the truck. Steve hesitated, and the deputy made a sound of exasperation. "I wouldn't make this any worse, son. If you're a cop, you know the drill. Against the vehicle."

He wasn't sure if he could even move his left arm, much less lift it above shoulder height, but the gleam of malice in the other man's eyes was not encouraging. He edged over to the truck and propped himself against it, trying not to flinch as his feet were kicked farther apart, effectively making him dependent on the truck to stay upright.

The searching hand slid his wallet out of his pocket and flipped it open. "Lieutenant Steve Sloan, LAPD. Hmmpfh." There was a pause. "You carrying, Sloan?"

Steve really didn't want to tell this yahoo, but he was getting a very bad feeling that their unplanned visit to Destiny might otherwise run longer than he would have expected. "In the glove compartment," he said shortly, wincing as the tingling in his arm lessened, only to be replaced by a vicious cramping.

The deputy grunted. "You're starting to smarten up. Good." He glanced at an appalled Jesse. "You with the deer in the headlights look. Get the gun out very slowly and hand it to me, very carefully."

Jesse flashed Steve a look of sheer panic. "Steve?"

Steve risked a surreptitious glance in the deputy's direction. The man wore an odd expression, which after a moment's puzzlement he recognized as one of satisfaction. Obviously he was hoping for more resistance, but Steve wasn't about to let him start in on his friend.

"It's all right, Jess," he said, trying to convince himself as well. "Get it for him. Then maybe we can drive into town and find an ATM or something."

The deputy received Steve's gun, inspected it briefly, and stuck it in his belt. "Oh, we're heading into town, but I wouldn't know about any ATM machine." He grinned nastily at Steve. "I take it you boys can't rustle up the cash?" He fingered the bills in Steve's wallet. "Twenty, fifty, eighty. Lots of plastic. That explains it."

Jesse flushed as the deputy turned his attention towards him. "I don't carry much cash. Everybody takes debit cards!"

"Well, then," the deputy said a little too cheerfully, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to arrest your friend. Let the sheriff sort this out -- and there is the small matter of attempted assault on an officer." He anticipated Steve's attempt to wrench himself away from the truck; both guns were aimed and ready before Steve had started to twist away to the left. "Don't even think about twitching," he advised baldly, "unless you want a bullet."

Steve froze, the skin on the back of his neck crawling as he heard the clink of metal behind him. Jesse heard it too, and opened his mouth to intervene, but Steve caught his eye and shook his head almost imperceptibly, hoping to limit the extent of this potential disaster. He found himself concentrating hard on that concept as he felt the cuffs circle one wrist, then the other, as the deputy roughly pulled his arms behind him, and his cheekbone connected hard with the side of the truck. Then hands grabbed his shoulders, pulling him around to face the lawman. Steve saw the flicker in the other man's eyes barely in time, and even then was unable to do much more than try to dodge sideways. The blow still connected solidly with his stomach, and he folded over the deputy's arm, only just managing to stay on his feet. Another punch, but this time he was ready, lunging low, as if to attempt a tackle, and caught the driving fist with his shoulder instead. From the surprised grunt of pain, he surmised that it had hurt the deputy more than it had him, and he laughed breathlessly, starting to edge back out of range.

Not quickly enough, however; Jesse's shout and the blow came within seconds of each other. Steve barely had time to assimilate his friend's warning when the gun clipped him neatly on the side of the head and sent him tumbling to the dirt, his last coherent thought one of intense irritation with himself.

Jesse was out of the truck like a shot, kneeling by Steve's recumbent body. "You people are insane!" he raged, skilled fingers quickly probing the wound, which was bleeding fairly freely. At least Steve's breathing was normal, although Jesse suspected he would be feeling the effect of the gut punch when he woke up. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it against Steve's head, glaring up at the deputy. "Well, what's wrong with you?" he snarled. "Call 911! He needs medical attention."

The deputy smirked. "All he's gonna get right now is a jail cell and a band-aid." His face hardened as Jesse stared at him in outrage. "And if you don't want to end up like your friend, I suggest you do as you're told." He bent down and took hold of Steve's feet. "If you don't want his head banging on the ground, you'd better pick up his shoulders," he advised callously, starting to drag the unconscious man towards the SUV.

Horrified, Jesse grabbed, barely in time to keep the bloodied head from incurring additional battering, promising himself he'd find some way to pay back this arrogant swine. For now, he'd settle for getting Steve somewhere which provided medical care. He staggered over towards the SUV, feeling ineffectual as the deputy carelessly shoved Steve's body into the back, securing him with the seat belt, then turned to face the angry young man.

"Okay, son. Here's what's going to happen. I'm heading into town -- if you're smart, you'll get in that truck and follow me." He grinned nastily. "You might think it's wiser to go the other way, but you'll find Destiny's a hard place to run from." He laughed. "Get it? You can't escape Destiny."

"Yeah, I get it," Jesse responded sourly. "Real funny." He pointed at the truck. "Don't worry. I'll be right behind you. There's no way I'd abandon my best friend to the likes of you." Pretty brave speech, he thought shakily, considering there was precious little to keep this fellow from blowing him away right then and there, but the lawman nodded, apparently satisfied.

"Hmmm. Not such a frightened little chipmunk after all, are you? Fine, son. Just make sure you abide by the posted limit." Luckily, he was already turning towards the driver's side of his vehicle before the emboldened Jesse could tell him what he could do with his speed limit.

Jesse muttered it under his breath anyway as he climbed into the truck and fumbled with the keys, fervently hoping no harm would come to the vehicle while he was its temporary guardian, or the fiercely overprotective Steve would have his head. His gaze fell on the phone nestling in its holder, and he reached for it with a flash of hope that he might be able to call for reinforcements. Closer inspection dashed his optimism, however; the signal icon was faint, and he got no results from punching in any numbers. Must be all the mountains -- and canyons, he thought grumpily, as the road snaked by one sheer rock face to slither between two more in what seemed like an impossibly small space. It was like something out of one of those old movies, Jesse thought, where the hero braves an impenetrable gorge to find another world, isolated from all the hustle and bustle of the modern age.

Which was precisely what he discovered as they emerged. As they approached the outskirts of the town itself, he saw a combination of old stonework houses and semi-rustic cabins; then a store, a barber, a post office. And the only vehicles on the road which weren't attached to horses were the SUV and Steve's truck. This place was stuck somewhere in the previous century -- the early part, he thought with a shiver, wondering into just what strange world he and Steve had stumbled.

The deputy pulled to a stop next to a building which looked like every jail in every old Western Jesse had ever seen. This was too weird, he thought; then the deputy got out of his car and hooked a beckoning finger at the startled newcomer. His intent was clear. Jesse got out of the truck and walked over to join him, sneaking a quick look at Steve, who was still unconscious, as he went by. At least the bleeding looked like it had stopped, he thought with some relief.

Once inside, the deputy pointed at a table. "Empty your pockets, son." Nervously, Jesse complied, watching carefully as the other man pawed briefly through his wallet, change, keys, and other assorted items. "Guess your friend is the outdoorsman," the deputy commented, chuckling at Jesse's affronted stare. "You don't have anything useful with you -- typical city boy." He shoved the stuff back at Jesse, who picked it up and redistributed it in his pockets, then motioned him into one of the two old-fashioned cells.

"Wait a minute," Jesse objected. "What about my friend?"

A not very pleasant smile. "He'll be in shortly. You first, boy."

Jesse opened his mouth to enlighten the missing link as to his profession, then thought better of it. Better to wait and see what would happen with the sheriff, and he wanted to take a closer look at Steve's head wound. He contented himself with a meaningful glare as he sidled by the lawman into the cell, trying not to jump as the door clanged shut behind him.


	3. A Face From the Past

He was vaguely aware of daylight, and sitting in a rather cramped position. His head hurt, a sharp, angry pain, and he felt slightly nauseated. He tried to lift a hand to touch it, but his arm refused to move from its awkward angle. Very gradually, Steve became aware of the touch of metal on his wrists, both of which were jammed behind him. The nausea threatened again, and he subdued it with an effort, then creaked first one and then the other eye open. He was in an SUV, the deputy's, he surmised, apparently somewhere in the thriving metropolis of Destiny. He frowned at the lack of any noticeable connection to the twenty-first century, and winced as the movement pulled, reminding the pain of its existence. His awareness of his surroundings growing, Steve suddenly realized with a tinge of dismay that he was alone in the vehicle, that his best friend was nowhere to be seen. Where was Jesse, he wondered urgently, staring out of the window at the antiquated buildings in bemusement.

The car door opened suddenly, and he voiced the thought aloud. "What have you done with my friend?" he growled, and choked on the question as a fist bloodied his mouth.

"We'll ask the questions," announced the voice of his prior acquaintance. He reached in, undid the seat belt, and yanked Steve out with fairly little visible effort. Steve stumbled, and was rewarded with a shove which drove him back against the side of the SUV, awakening the residual soreness in his left shoulder. Then the deputy took his arm, pushing him toward a building boasting "Sheriff" painted on it.

Steve blinked at the dilapidated sign and shrugged mentally. Whatever was necessary to get them out of this nineteenth-century throwback; he didn't care if the sheriff turned out to be Wyatt Earp. He straightened slightly, so that he could walk more freely, forcing the deputy to shift his grip to one with less leverage, and moved towards the worn door, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his head. The sheriff's office was empty, but he saw Jesse's face behind the far bars once they entered the other room. Relief at locating his partner was immediately replaced by alarm. "Why is he locked up?" he demanded, coughing as the same fist drove into his stomach this time.

"I told you. We do the asking," the deputy rumbled. He speedily emptied the contents of Steve's pockets onto the table, then pushed him toward the cell next to Jesse's. A final shove sent Steve careening inside, and the door closed behind him with the same ominous noise Jesse had experienced earlier.

Jesse absorbed the sight of Steve's restrained wrists with barely concealed fury. "He could have taken those off," he snarled, heading for the cell door.

"Jess --" His voice came out just slightly above a wheeze, and he staggered as dizziness rippled through him.

Jesse stopped in his tracks. "Steve -- there's a cot over by the back wall on this side."

Steve glanced toward his friend, his gaze falling on a bench in the corner, which apparently was masquerading as a cot by virtue of the motheaten blanket lying on top of it, and pointed himself in that direction. Jesse headed for his corresponding corner and thrust his hands through the bars. "Let me see your head."

His voice sounded better this time. "Jesse, leave it. At least it's stopped bleeding." He sagged back against the wall, ignoring his friend's muttering, which seemed to involve the word hospital. "Any sign of the sheriff, or has Dudley Do-Right there been it?"

Jesse settled on the cot in his own cell. "Not yet. This guy told me to follow him into town, then he tossed me in here." He slid a glance sideways. "There's something weird about this place, Steve."

Steve shifted, trying to ease the strain in his shoulders. "You noticed that, huh, Jess?"

Jesse ignored the sarcasm. "No, really, Steve. This town looks like --"

"Like it never made it into the twentieth century, much less this one," Steve finished.

"There's more." Jesse pulled his legs up onto the cot and wrapped his arms around his knees. Quickly, he filled Steve in on what he had seen on the drive into town.

Steve looked distracted. "No other cars -- why am I getting the feeling it's going to be hard to find an ATM?" He sat up at a sudden thought. "Wait a minute. You drove my truck? Jess, if there's --"

"Hold on, Steve!" Jesse exclaimed, laughing. "I treated it with kid gloves, trust me." He raised his hands defensively as Steve's eyebrows lowered threateningly. "Honest, Steve. You can't hit me, so why would I lie to you?"

They grinned at each other companionably. Then both heads turned towards the outer corridor as faint voices approached.

"Clocked him at sixty in the slow zone, sir," their initial acquaintance said.

A new voice responded. "And then he tried to jump you, John?"

"Yessir. Assault on a police officer and resisting arrest."

Jesse bolted up. "Hey! That's a lie! He didn't --" He broke off at the look on his partner's face. "Steve? -- Steve, buddy, are you all right?"

Steve looked like he'd seen a ghost. "It can't be," he breathed.

The voices outside had stopped. Jesse stared at Steve in bewilderment. "Can't be what?"

Steve wore an abstracted look. "Nah. That'd just be too unlikely." He glanced towards the door. "The second guy's voice just reminded me of someone, that's all."

Jesse was about to probe further when the footsteps came nearer, and both men stared towards the hall, waiting tensely. After a seemingly interminable interval, Steve's cell door opened, and the deputy, along with an individual who was obviously the sheriff, strolled in.

Surprising himself, Jesse leapt to his feet. "What's going on here? My friend should be in a hospital!"

"I'll be damned," said the sheriff, ignoring Jesse completely.

Steve stiffened. "Roger Hill," he remarked, not especially pleasantly. "What a surprise. Can't say it's a welcome one."

Jesse glanced from one hostile male to the other. "You know the sheriff, Steve?"

His eyes still on the newcomer's face, Steve nodded. "Knew him well at one time, Jess. Or thought I did." He shrugged one shoulder. "Until I found myself knowing more than I wanted to about him."

Hill flushed darkly. "You still talking too much, eh, Sloan?"

Steve shook his head. "Apparently not enough, since these people hired you."

"I don't understand," Jesse said, noting the virtually identical antipathy in both expressions.

Steve leaned back, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles casually. "Roger used to be a real cop once upon a time, until he went on the take -- more profitable, if less honorable."

"As I said, Sloan," Hill snarled, "You still don't know when to shut up."

Jesse's face registered comprehension. "You turned him in, didn't you, Steve?"

"He didn't leave me much choice," Steve said shortly. "I tried to talk him into giving himself up, but --"

"But all you were interested in was looking good to the brass," Hill interrupted. "You didn't give a damn about my wife, my kid, my pension, my life --"

"And your trying to kill me was just an accident, I suppose," Steve retorted. "What the hell did you expect, Hill? I spent the better part of a month in the hospital -- if I hadn't pressed charges, my father certainly would have."

Hill's eyes acquired a strangely dreamy look. "There isn't any hospital in Destiny."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jesse yelped.

The sheriff flicked him a scornful glance. "If you're smart, Little Joe, you'll keep your mouth shut. Your friend and I have some unfinished business." He slid one hand into his pocket, and pulled out something which gleamed when he slipped it onto his hand.

Steve saw the glint, and laughed humorlessly. "Some things never change. Still using your toy of choice, I see." He glanced at Jesse, who looked like he was about to explode. "Jess -- stay out of this, okay?"

Jesse stared at him in shock. "You can't be serious."

Steve sighed. "Jess, Hill isn't interested in you," he said patiently. "Just me."

"But -- you're --" Jesse stammered, still unwilling to accept the situation.

Hill laughed nastily. "It's not going to make any difference." He treated Jesse to another scornful look. "I don't care if you yell your head off, Junior. John, take Sloan's handcuffs off. We have some catching up to do."

Jesse looked at Steve, irresolute. "Steve --" he began.

Steve got up and moved close to their shared bars, out of the officers' hearing. "Jess. Listen to me here. Hill doesn't want to do anything to you -- yet. All he wants is a piece of me. Don't give him an excuse."

"But --"

Steve exhaled, a long, impatient sound. "Jess, he's got a score to settle. With me. Only me. And I doubt he's going to try to do more than seriously rough me up with witnesses present. So maybe if we get on with it, we can get out of this miserable place."

Jesse started to protest more, then came to a screeching halt as Steve shook his head. "All right, Steve. But I don't like this. And you're acting directly against medical advice."

Deputy Howard ambled over. "Turn around, Sloan," he ordered, reaching to remove the handcuffs.

Steve rubbed his wrists and sneered at Hill. "Take your best shot, Roger," he invited, flexing his hands experimentally. He gave a fairly good account of himself for a while; forcing the inevitable conclusion to the confrontation did not necessarily equate with allowing himself to be beaten to a pulp without a fight.

Both men were bloody and breathing heavily when Hill signaled Howard. "Get Flynn in here, John. We've played around long enough."

Here it came. Steve dragged the back of his hand across his mouth and blinked at the streak of blood it had acquired. He raised one eyebrow as Howard returned with another equally brawny deputy. "Don't tell me a little law-abiding town like Destiny actually needs the attention of three whole full-time law enforcement professionals," he taunted.

Hill's eyes flickered. "Laugh while you still can, Sloan. I'm gonna wipe that smartass smirk off of your face shortly." He jerked his head towards the prisoner. "Hold him."

Horrified, Jesse clung to the bars, shouting and yelling, unable to tear his eyes from the brutal scene in the adjoining cell, wincing as dull thuds of blows were followed by barely suppressed sounds of pain. Hill had an uncanny ability to measure the severity of his punches so as to deliver the greatest degree of pain without letting his victim lose consciousness. And, Jesse realized bitterly, there wasn't a damn thing he could do to help his best friend except scream and pound at the bars like a lunatic.

A vicious blow to the abdomen, finally sending Steve to his knees, and an equally vicious kick to the injured man's ribs, and Jesse jammed his fist against his mouth to keep from crying out, from begging Hill to stop, knowing his distress would simply incite additional sadism. Steve, I'm so sorry, he thought miserably, forgive me, I can't stop him. And this is all my fault, my stupid idea. Frantically, he scrabbled for control, convincing himself he wouldn't help the situation by becoming hysterical. He squeezed suspiciously blurred eyes shut momentarily, then reopened them, praying for calm.

The scene had not improved particularly substantially. Hill stood over Steve's prone body, one foot swinging idly. "Had enough, Sloan?"

Jesse couldn't make out the answer, but it apparently displeased the sheriff, because the booted foot continued its now not so idle swing and rammed into Steve's side hard enough to roll him onto his back, a involuntary moan escaping him. Hill laughed shortly and delivered another vicious kick, watching his victim's body convulse, the same dreamy look as before on his face.

He had to stop this madman, Jesse thought desperately, before this went any further. "Sheriff! Listen to me!"

Amazingly, Hill turned his head. His intent look was frightening in its single-mindedness. "What do you want, kid?"

I'm not a kid, Jesse wanted to yell, with increasing sympathy for Steve's desire to get in a few punches. "I'm a doctor. Unless you're planning on killing him pretty soon, you'd better stop before you hurt him any more."

Hill's grin altered into an oddly measuring look. "Doctor, eh?"

There was an irate muttering from the man on the floor; Hill kicked him carelessly, without bothering to look, concentrating on Jesse. Who grabbed his nerves with both mental hands. "Yes. I'm on staff at Community General Hospital in L.A. We were on a camping trip." He reddened as the sheriff gave him the familiar look of disbelief.

"Camping. Well, maybe as long as you let Sloan do everything. He's such a boy scout anyway." Again the foot, and a choked-off yelp as it caught Steve by surprise. Hill laughed again and returned his attention to Jesse. "So what are you trying to tell me, Doctor Junior?"

Jesse ached to plant his fist in the man's smirking face, but he held his peace. "I'm telling you that you've taken him about as far as you can if you expect to get any kind of response from him. At this point, you might as well kick around a bale of hay -- you'd get the same amount of satisfaction." He tried not to flinch as Steve rolled a malevolent eye in his direction, and made a mental note to cook up a really effective explanation for his friend -- later.

Hill was still considering Jesse's declaration. "Doctor, eh?" he repeated musingly. When Jesse nodded wordlessly, the sheriff nodded himself, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "All right, Junior. I presume you're also gonna suggest I should let you in here to see to him?"

Despite his resolve to stay calm, Jesse couldn't control the tone of his voice any longer. "That's a good presumption," he snapped. Angry eyes met amused ones; then the sheriff grinned.

"All right, Junior. You'll get your wish. I'll even have Flynn fetch the first aid kit." He glanced downwards; Steve had slid into semi-consciousness, barely semi at that. "Not sure how much good it will do, but I'd be surprised if a brainy lad like you can't come up with something." As Jesse stared at him in amazement, he added, "After that, son, you and I are going to have a little conversation about your doctoring skills."

He prodded the unconscious man with his foot, but got no reaction, and shrugged. "You're right about one thing. It's a hell of a lot more fun when he's awake." He motioned to Flynn. "You heard me. First aid kit, then deposit Junior in here with his pal."

It was silly, but Jesse's self respect required the attempt. "That's Doctor Travis to you," he snapped again, with as much bravado as he could muster.

Hill stared at him, then grinned widely. "All right. Doctor Travis. Your patient's waiting." He bent down and grabbed Steve's head from behind. "Be good, Sloan. We'll finish this later." The dreamy look once more in evidence, he let go his grip, smiling as Steve's head hit the floor, and walked out.


	4. Dance With the Devil

Jesse waited until the lawmen had left before kneeling down by his best friend's sprawled body. Slowly, carefully, he began taking inventory of the damage, hoping Steve wold stay out a little longer so he could finish in peace. "Possibly dislocated shoulder, two -- no, three cracked ribs, abdominal bruising --" he muttered to himself, starting as a faint, labored voice spoke.

"Jess. You're supposed to sound encouraging." Steve tried to laugh, in order to reassure his disturbed friend, but started coughing instead, triggering an unpleasant series of paroxysms.

Slowly, the doctor eased the hurt man back down and glared at him. "What is the matter with you, Steve? You know better. Now hold still and try to relax while I finish assessing the damage."

"I can list it for you as specifically as you like," Steve pointed out acidly. "I'm rather intimately acquainted with it."

Jesse sat back on his heels and gave him an affronted stare. "No doubt. But I am the doctor. You're the one paying the price for egging on that sadist."

Battered, bruised and exhausted though he was, Steve discerned an unusual note of strain in his best friend's voice. "Jess -- are you all right?" he asked hesitantly.

"No."

Steve peered up at him awkwardly. "Jess, I'm not up to guessing games."

Suddenly angry, Jesse threw up his hands. "That's just it, Steve! Why not? Shall I tell you why not? Yes, I'll tell you why not! Because you deliberately goaded a man with every reason to want revenge into beating the hell out of you, that's why not!" His face crumpled, obvious distress in his eyes. "Steve, it's bad enough I got you into this -- but you could at least let me try to repair some of the damage without giving me a hard time in the process!"

Steve's eyes crossed with the strain of trying to keep them focused. Jesse's hands, rarely still under normal circumstances, kept flying in and out of Steve's line of sight as the doctor's agitation grew. "Hold on, Jess. What do you mean, you got me into this?"

Jesse sighed, shoulders slumping, hands momentarily still. "This was all my great idea. Just so we could prove Amanda and Cheryl were wrong. And look what happens." The agitation picked up steam again, and Steve reached up and grabbed one of the offending extremities.

"Stop that. You're making me dizzy with all those fingers waving in front of my face." He swallowed. "Jess --"

"How many fingers?" Jesse asked, momentarily distracted.

"Too many," Steve snapped, then added hastily, "Never mind that right now." He started to struggle to sit up; after a couple of extremely stressful minutes for both men, Jesse managed to prop Steve against his leg enough to reduce some of the discomfort. "Listen to me, Jess. This is not your fault. This was sheer coincidence. And you're right -- I didn't have to bait Hill like that."

Jesse mumbled something; Steve strained to understand him in vain. "What?"

He mumbled it again, and this time "nothing", "bars" and "helpless" emerged out of the incoherence. He still wasn't particularly clear, but Steve was starting to get the idea.

"Jess, at least that was one relief to me -- you were out of range."

"Yes, but --"

Steve shook his head. The movement triggered more coughing, which he tolerated as well as he was able. "I don't think I would want to try to explain to my father how your hands got broken," he pointed out patiently.

Jesse still wasn't mollified. "Steve, I'm serious."

"So am I. And don't think I don't appreciate it. But I would never forgive myself if he'd started in on you because of me." Steve gave his best friend a narrow stare. "So please don't give him an excuse, okay, Jess?"

Jesse flushed, and mumbled something else. Steve would have argued the point longer, but his growing discomfort was rapidly turning into something else. "Jess, this floor is starting to get really uncomfortable, not to mention cold. I realize that cot isn't much better, but at least it's got a blanket."

Jesse looked at him closely. "Let me finish checking you over, and do something about that shoulder. Then you'll probably be more than ready to lie down."

Jesse was right. Fifteen ghastly minutes later, Steve's shoulder was back in place, and he was lying, white-faced and sweating, on the bench, clutching the blanket to his body as a fit of involuntary shivering shuddered through him. Jesse was perched on the end of the cot, head down, trying to control his own nausea. Finally, he lifted his head.

"Wow. That was not fun, Steve. Let's not do it again any time soon, okay?"

Steve groaned. "You're lucky I don't have the strength to strangle you where you sit."

"Mmmm." Jesse let the conversational gambit slide by. "Steve -- do you have any idea how we're going to get out of here?"

His partner groaned again. "I was afraid you were going to ask me that." He was silent for a while. "At this point, the only thing that occurs to me is to wait for an opening and then run like hell -- but I keep thinking there's a basic flaw in that plan."

Jesse swiveled his head toward him. "You mean nasty little details like whether Hill's going to want a rematch?"

"The thought crossed my mind," Steve admitted tiredly. He shifted his body, trying to get more comfortable, as much as that was possible. Jesse caught the sliding blanket and adjusted it, then rose, his eyes sweeping over his best friend, noting with distress the pain in the lines of the other man's body. "Try to rest, Steve. Your body needs a chance to recuperate."

Steve closed his eyes, more from exhaustion than obedience. "May as well -- I'm not going anywhere right now."

Jesse paced as Steve slept, thinking furiously. There had to be some way out of their predicament, preferably one which didn't involve any more wear and tear on Steve. He thought of yelling for help and ambushing whoever answered the call, except their cell offered absolutely nothing in the way of useful weapons or tools. Insisting on hospital care for Steve was also pointless, as he'd already discovered. Sighing, he slid down the wall to a sitting position on the floor, legs outstretched, and leaned his head back in order to think.

He woke with a start. How long had he been asleep? It had been late afternoon when they arrived in Destiny, but Jesse could just distinguish a cool, greyish light trickling into the cell from the hallway. He glanced at his watch, and was shocked when it revealed the time to be after seven. In the morning. A series of rasping snores from the cot indicated that Steve was sleeping, not particularly comfortably, but the movement under his eyelids indicated he was still fairly deeply under. The longer he stayed that way, the better, Jesse thought grimly, and slowly stood up, stretching to relieve the tired knots in his muscles. There was no sign of sheriff or deputies, and rage soon set in, his thoughts circling back to the frustrated patterns of the night before, as he started once more to prowl back and forth.

A sudden voice made him jump. "Something troubling you, doc?"

His neck hot, Jesse whipped around to face the speaker. "Oh, not at all," he retorted. "I always pace when my best friend's been badly hurt and we're being held prisoner by some tin horn despot."

Hill laughed. "I like you, kid. Willing to stand up to me even though you know I could probably break your spine one-handed."

Jesse was tired, hungry and angry, the fury sending chill fingers through his body and brain, affecting his sense of self-preservation. "Undoubtedly. But I'll tell you something, Sheriff. I may not match up to your level physically, but I bet I know more ways of killing someone legally than you do."

The sheriff raised his eyebrows. "You know, I'd agree with you on that one. I'll remember that." He pulled out his keys and unlocked the door. "I want to talk to you in my office."

Jesse stared at him, not sure he wanted to know why. "I'm not leaving my patient."

"He's not going anywhere," Hill commented. "Besides, looks to me like he's asleep. Doesn't need you for anything right now." He jerked a thumb at the door. "I'd take me up on it if I were you. Out."

Reluctantly, Jesse obeyed. Settled in a surprisingly comfortable chair in Hill's office, he waited impatiently for the sheriff to enlighten him.

Hill didn't keep him waiting long. "I have a proposition for you, Dr. Travis, which I think will benefit us all." Jesse said nothing, and the sheriff continued. "Destiny's currently without a resident doctor. We've hired one, but we just recently received word that his arrival would be delayed by a week or so."

Jesse stared at him in disbelief. This lunatic was no doubt going to ask him to help out -- after what had happened! Careful, he told himself, don't go leaping to any conclusions just yet. "And?" he prompted.

"We'd like you to stay and fill in until he gets here," Hill answered matter-of-factly.

Confirmation of his suspicion didn't make the request any less unpalatable. But -- "I assume there's some reason you think I'll agree," he ventured.

The sheriff wore an unreadable expression. "Yes. You stay for that temporary period, and we'll forgive the $350 fine Sloan incurred as well as the other charges. I'll even release him in a day or two."

"Release him," Jesse repeated stupidly. "You'll just -- let him go. Like that."

Hill nodded. "Like that."

His brain insisted there was a trick, that Hill had no intention of keeping his promise. But again -- "If I say no?" he asked cautiously.

"Then we charge Sloan, and all bets are off," the sheriff responded flatly. "And," he added as Jesse's eyes automatically slid towards Steve's cell, "this is a one-time offer. You have fifteen minutes, in here, to decide. You consult with Sloan, you know he'll try to talk you out of it. Do you really want to be responsible for any more injury which might accidentally befall him?" He rose. "You've got fifteen minutes. I'm going to check on Sloan." With a malevolent smirk, Hill left, not even bothering to close the door behind him.

Unwillingly, Jesse trailed him as far as the doorway. From that vantage point, he was well within range of the sounds which followed, and shut his eyes in misery, unable to watch as well. When Hill returned, the young doctor had made up his mind.

"We've got ourselves a deal, Dr. Travis," Sheriff Hill declared, extending his hand to Jesse, who shook it gingerly, still not particularly happy about the situation. "Ready to start?"

"Two things," Jesse stated flatly. "I want to see you tear up Steve's paperwork -- and I want to check on him before I see anyone else."

Hill eyed the determined young man, again amused by the backbone so at odds with the kid's friendly face. Meeting those conditions was of minor importance. "No problem," he replied, reaching for the documents and ripping them into pieces. "But I'm sure you won't mind if I accompany you."

Jesse would have preferred to talk to Steve alone, but he hadn't really expected the sheriff to permit him to do so. He shrugged a shoulder, trying to look nonchalant. "Fine," he said carelessly, and stood up. "Now is good."

The visible newly-inflicted damage was relatively insubstantial, which bothered him, as the most recent beating had sounded fairly brutal. Jesse absorbed the sight of the blackened eye and newly bloodied mouth, as well as the substantially bruised cheek, with an outer calm he had not known he possessed, rage boiling inwardly. Steve's other eye was closed, and his breathing, while raspy, was more or less even; Jesse guessed he was at most barely conscious, and more likely unaware of his surroundings. He noted the arms guarding ribs and abdomen with some concern, surmising these had been Hill's recent targets. He reached to pull up Steve's shirt and jumped as an iron arm barred his way.

Steve stirred, and his arm dropped. "Oh. It's you, Jess," he slurred, his good eye still unfocused as he blinked at his friend.

"Don't try to talk yet, Steve. Let me see where you're hurt."

A wheezing attempt at a chuckle. "Everywhere, Jess." But he let his arm fall back from the area in question so Jesse could examine him. "What's going on, Jess?"

Jesse stared at his patient narrowly. "What are you talking about, Steve?"

Steve rolled his head to the side, then back again in order to focus on the doctor. "Hill's in here with you, and letting you do this? What's the occasion?" His voice had begun to acquire an agitated edge.

"Easy, big guy," Jesse responded, examining the latest marks of violence carefully. One of the bruises had a particularly nasty look to it, and he prayed that it didn't indicate any internal injury. "I told him I'd check on some sick people if he'd let me see you first. I'll be back later."

Predictably, Steve started to splutter, sparking an equally foreseeable fit of coughing. When the paroxysm had subsided, Jesse fixed his ashen patient with a stern look. "I'm doing what's necessary, Steve. Don't fight me on this."

Even if he'd had the stamina to try, his best friend's eyes were implacable. Jesse didn't stick his toes in and refuse to budge often, but, when he did, there was no use arguing. "All right, Jess," Steve whispered. "I trust you." The tired eyes closed slowly.

At least he hadn't had to lie, Jesse thought miserably, although the undisclosed portion of his bargain with the devil gnawed at his conscience. He pulled the mangy blanket up to provide what marginal protection it offered, and turned to Hill, trying not to let his feelings show. "Let's get this show on the road."

As they walked through the office, Hill crooked a finger at Howard, who was sprawled in a chair, reading a magazine. "John, I need you for a minute." After ushering Jesse into the SUV, Hill excused himself, with the comment that he needed to advise the deputy of the change in the situation.

Howard glanced at his boss quizzically as they moved a few steps away from the vehicle. "Change, sir?"

Hill nodded. "I'm going to escort Travis on his new rounds. While we're gone, I want you and Flynn to take Sloan and lose him."

"Lose him?" Howard repeated. "Anywhere in particular?"

Hill wore that obscenely dreamy look again. "Weather report says a storm's heading this way." He shrugged one shoulder. "The lieutenant's not exactly prepared for bad weather, is he? Hypothermia, wild animals, whatever works. Just make sure he's still alive when you dump him; less evidence of foul play that way."

The deputy saluted and strolled off; Hill got into the SUV and started the engine. "Told him to keep an eye on Sloan for you."

Jesse gave him a suspicious look, but the sheriff's expression was noncommittal. He looked away, and noticed they were heading out of the "downtown" area, if it could be called that. "Where are we going?" he demanded nervously.

The sheriff laughed. "Relax, doctor. Your first patient lives a way out of town, and it's not always easy for his mother to bring him in."

"Why not?" Jesse asked curiously.

Hill shook his head. "Her name's Gillian Tolliver. Her husband was sheriff before me." Before Jesse could inquire, he continued. "Husband died in a freak hunting accident. She's got a nine-year-old boy, Paul. Good kid, but sickly. Last doctor couldn't figure out what's wrong with him." He gave Jesse a sharp look. "I'm hoping you'll have better luck."

Jesse looked pensive. "It could be a lot of things. Has he been tested?"

Hill considered. "I know Dr. Jackson ran some, but you may have noticed Destiny's not exactly up to modern standards."

I noticed, Jesse thought grumpily, which does beg the question of how you ended up here. But he kept the sentiment to himself, and settled for an innocuous comment about more testing if necessary, staring out the window morosely. After a short interval, a sudden thought occurred to him. "Uh -- I don't have my bag with me," he said tentatively.

Hill slanted an amused glance at him. "No problem. Old doc left his -- said he wasn't going to need it where he was going." Another look. "He died of cancer. Was a good man."

"Oh," Jesse said blankly, and subsided into silence once more. A few minutes later, Hill turned off onto a dirt and gravel road, which they bumped down for another minute or two until entering a circular gravel drive in front of a sprawling ranch house with a long porch wrapped around it. As they pulled up, a small woman emerged from the house, running her hands quickly through short, curly brown hair. Closer inspection showed clear green eyes and delicate but pronounced cheekbones in a smiling, heart-shaped face; she was wearing snug-fitting jeans and an oxford shirt, long sleeves rolled up. She looked eminently capable and achingly delicate at the same time, and Jesse succumbed before she had even said a word.

"Gillian, this is Dr. Travis. He's doing rounds temporarily," Hill said, motioning to his companion.

"Jesse," said that gentleman, eagerly taking her hand. "Pleased to meet you."

Gillian smiled at the doctor, enjoying the appreciative look in the kind eyes. "Nice to meet you, doctor. It's very good of you to help out."

Squirming mentally, he mumbled something polite and slid away from the subject. "I understand your son's been having some problems."

Her face clouded. "Paul's a great kid, lots of energy. But he gets sick so easily -- and it's not like we live such in a large environment that he'd logically be surrounded by germs."

Jesse smiled at her, and again she was startled by the warmth of his eyes. "I'll take a look at him, and see what I can discover."


	5. Winter Games

He was cold again. Damn blanket must have slipped, Steve thought muzzily, and reached down for it in vain. Recognition that it wasn't there came simultaneously with startled awareness of a cold, hard and very wet surface underneath his body, and his eyes snapped open in alarm. Dazed, he looked around slowly. The bars of the jail cell were gone, replaced by clouds, trees, lots of them, and -- falling snow. Which was not falling softly or gently, either; as he stared around him, the wind picked up strength, and the snow started to descend faster and harder. Within seconds it was clear that staying where he was would not be wise. Somehow, Steve struggled to his feet, gritting his teeth against the multitude of aches and pains which abruptly awoke, and began to stagger away, only to pause in bewilderment as the additional realization hit him that he had absolutely no idea where he was. As he gazed around again, even more consternated, he was able to determine only from the treeline that he seemed to be somewhere on the side of a small canyon. Where that canyon might be, or whether it was anywhere near Destiny, was another matter. He shivered, and the movement reminded him that he needed to find some way out of the snow, since his now-soaked jacket would have been too flimsy in any event to afford him much protection.

Scanning his immediate surroundings once more, he saw what looked like an outcropping of rock, and headed slowly in that direction, hoping there might be a corresponding overhang; with a little luck, it might be large enough for him to take shelter temporarily. A closer view proved encouraging, and he grinned to himself. He might not necessarily be able to get warmer, but at least he wouldn't be any wetter.

His luck held almost until he reached his goal. A patch of older snow had crusted over lightly with ice, which Steve's blurry vision was unable to differentiate. His balance already weakened, he was totally unprepared for the extra drop as his foot hit the treacherous spot, and he fell forward, outstretched hands diving deep into the snow to break his fall. There was a sudden piercing pain in his right hand, and fire streaked up his wrist and arm, ripping into the muscle just above his elbow. Swearing, he rolled over and sat up, to find a large, jagged branch virtually impaled in his right arm, which, when he finally succeeded in yanking it out, revealed a long, ugly wound that was already bleeding copiously and which hurt like hell. Steve pushed himself to his feet, an awkward process, and stumbled towards the rock overhang, clutching his torn arm and clenching his teeth against the mounting pain. Once under the rock's shelter, he cleaned the wound with snow as best he could, and tore the ruined sleeve from his jacket, wrapping it around his arm, then sat back to consider his options.

Which were few and not encouraging. His watch had been broken during the initial brawling with the sheriff, so he knew neither what time it was nor how long he'd been out on the hillside. He had no idea where his little canyon was, or where he was in relation to Destiny. He also couldn't keep crouching under his rock for too much longer, but his abused body overruled this train of thought. He tried to fight the exhaustion, to make some kind of plan, but it was no use. With a sigh, Steve huddled against the rocks and drifted into greyness.

Jesse finished up and sat back. "Go ahead and put your shirt back on, Paul," he told the little boy. Small for his age, with the same clear eyes and impish face as his mother, Paul was a cheerful child who had traded bad jokes with the amused doctor during the course of the examination. After giving his mother an inquiring look and receiving a quick nod, Paul grinned at Jesse and ran off to his room, where shortly rather intriguing sounds of mayhem could be heard.

Seeing Jesse's startled reaction, Gillian laughed. "Dino wars," she explained. "Paul still enjoys playing with them. The noise level has just increased since he was younger." She sobered. "So what do you think is wrong, Doctor?"

Jesse rubbed his nose thoughtfully. "Unfortunately, I don't think I can make a definitive diagnosis until I have an opportunity to run some tests, which I know we can do at Community General."

She opened her mouth to speak, but Hill beat her to the punch. "Now, doc, you know we have a deal." He placed a beefy hand on Gillian's arm in a rather proprietary manner. "Doc Travis has agreed to stay until our new doctor gets here."

Jesse wondered at the familiarity with which the sheriff treated Gillian, feeling an unexpected ripple of jealousy ooze through him. Careful, Jess, he told himself. You don't know anything about the two of them except that she's gorgeous, and he's a toad.

His quandary was unexpectedly and happily resolved by Gillian, who patted Hill's hand and then firmly removed it from her arm. "Roger, you're deliberately trying to mislead Dr. Travis. We've had this conversation." She turned to Jesse with a smile. "We're just friends, although Roger insists on flattering me by insisting he would like the relationship to be more than that."

Nicely done, Jesse thought with considerable relief. Definitely a woman with class. He realized she was watching him expectantly, and returned his concentration to the reason for his visit. "Okay, when the new doctor gets here, how about we take Paul to L.A.?" She nodded, but he saw a trace of disappointment in the clear eyes. "Wait, Mrs. Tolliver. I do have a theory."

"Gillian," she said automatically, but she was smiling again.

"Has Paul's immune system been tested?"

She looked startled. "He's not HIV, if that's what you mean."

Jesse shook his head. "No, but that's good to know. What I meant was, some kids react to an outside agent with an allergic reaction. Others get sicker because their immunities aren't strong or developed enough to fight off the interloper. Does Paul have any allergies?"

"Not really," Gillian said thoughtfully. "He has sinus problems, but those often seem to happen when he's already getting sick."

Hill had been listening intently. "So you're saying Paul could have a weaker immune system in general?"

Jesse spread his hands. "It's a possibility. The history you've given me is characteristic -- but I wouldn't want to make any final diagnosis without testing to rule out some of the more remote possibilities."

"If you're right," Gillian said slowly, "what can we do about it?"

Jesse smiled at her warmly. "We've got several ways to go in that case, including controlled antibiotic therapy, which can often encourage the immune system to develop its own defenses. Paul might still be affected by primary infections, but not as severely, and the frequency of secondary infections would drop."

The hope in her eyes was reward enough. Jesse felt a lightness of heart that surprised him, and which he quickly suppressed with a twinge of guilt; he couldn't possibly think of pleasure with Steve still in jail. He settled for taking her hand and smiling at her again. "We'll get it licked, Gillian. Don't worry."

She returned the smile, then turned to Hill, eyes blazing with purpose. "Roger, couldn't Dr. Travis at least take Paul down there and then return himself?"

Yeah, Jesse thought, I could -- and then I'd bring the cavalry back with me.

Hill jerked his head towards the window. "I can't recommend any travel of any length right now," he replied. "We've got a bad storm coming -- in fact, I'd better run Doc by some other folks before the weather gets worse." He gave her a concerned look. "Sure you'll be all right out here?"

Gillian laughed, hitting his arm lightly. "Roger, you old worrywart. "I've lived in this house since before Paul was born, and we've certainly had our share of bad weather." She raised her voice. "Paul! Our guests are leaving!"

The small body pelted out to where they stood. "Sheriff Hill, will you take me fishing next time?"

Hill laughed and gave the boy a quick hug. "Sure, Paul. If the water's frozen, we'll go ice fishing."

"Cool!" Paul crowed, then turned and took Jesse's hand. "Thank you for coming, Doctor Travis," he intoned so gravely that Jesse, still startled at the byplay between the boy and the sheriff, had to smile. "Later, dude," he advised, laughing at Paul's wide-eyed reaction.

His mother was another matter. Her eyes were so clear, so incredibly green. Jesse grabbed his wandering wits and stammered something inarticulate. Luckily, Gillian seemed to understand his incoherent statement, and returned it with a smile and an invitation to dinner as soon as the weather broke. Lighthearted, he accepted, and wandered outside, although not so carelessly as to fail to notice a short but intense exchange between the woman of his dreams and her other would-be suitor. This train of thought led him back to the apparent relationship between Hill and the boy. Strange, he mused. Both Gillian and Paul must have no idea of the monster inside.

Hill got into the SUV and gave him a shrewd look. "Surprised?" he asked caustically.

Jesse shrugged mentally. What did he have to lose. "Actually, yes," he admitted.

The sheriff concentrated on his driving for a moment. "So Sloan didn't tell you anything else about what happened," he said flatly.

Jesse wasn't sure if this was a question, but he answered it anyway. "I don't think any difficulties you may have had are especially high on Steve's list of concerns right now," he commented carefully.

Hill snorted. "You're right there." He flicked another glance at the younger man. "After Sloan turned me in, my wife took our son and left. Told me she was changing her name, and not to come looking for her."

He couldn't help himself. "That stopped you?"

Another sideways glance. "It's a good thing I like you, doc. Yes, it did. With a choice of her telling him what had happened if I did, yeah, it stopped me." He paused. "Once he's old enough to do his own thinking, is another matter."

Jesse felt an unwilling stab of compassion. "I'm sorry," he said grudgingly.

Hill looked at him sharply, about to make a sarcastic remark, and realized the concern in Jesse's eyes was genuine, even if the kid wasn't happy about it. "'S all right," he said gruffly, then added, "Paul's father died two years ago. And he's a good kid."

Jesse only nodded, reluctant to say anything else, and silence fell until they reached their next destination.

They had made two more stops when the first flakes began to drift down from the sky, nestling briefly on Jesse's outstretched hand before evaporating from the heat of his palm. "Wow. Steve wasn't kidding," he said without thinking.

"About what?" the sheriff asked sharply, startled by the stray remark.

Jesse blinked. "He just mentioned that it wasn't unusual to get an early storm up here," he amplified, puzzled by Hill's reaction.

The sheriff grunted. "He was right about that." He peered in the direction of the growing wind. "And so was that weatherman. We're definitely in for a bad one. Come on. I've arranged for a place for you to stay."

As he climbed back into the SUV, Jesse objected, "I want to check on Steve."

Hill threw him a look. "This is going to get very heavy very fast. You may be stuck there." He shrugged at the other man's lack of response. "Suit yourself," he said shortly, unconcerned with Jesse's potential reaction to Steve's disappearance.

Which was explosive to say the least. "You're telling me he's out in that?" Jesse yelled. One arm gesticulated wildly towards the street, where the snow was coming down considerably harder than a few minutes earlier, visibility shrinking even as Jesse glared at the swirling flakes. "Why the hell aren't you out looking for him?" Jesse was practically vibrating with fury, and Flynn objected.

"Hey. He's not going to get very far in this. If he's got any sense, he'll find shelter."

Something rang false, and Jesse opened his mouth to say so, when the sheriff intervened. "Doc, much as I hate to say it, considering Flynn mislaid your friend in the first place, my deputy's right. We'll mount a search for Sloan once the worst of the storm is past. Chances are the neck of the canyon's impassable by now anyway, so he can't wander too far." He gave his men a sharp look and an infinitesimal shake of his head, which Jesse, still concentrating on the hapless Flynn, missed. Unhappily, he allowed the sheriff to deposit him at a local boardinghouse, grudgingly agreeing to stay indoors until the weather let up.

Slowly but steadily, the cold seeped into Steve's body, even with the shelter provided by the overhang, until what started as gradual twitching intensified to almost uncontrollable shivering, jolting him awake with a vengeance. It took a few minutes, but he finally overcame his initial confusion, and memory returned with an unwelcome thud. With it came the reluctant conclusion that he was going to have to move if he didn't want to become a semi-permanent part of the landscape to be thawed out in the spring. He peered out into the snow anxiously, finally determining that the storm was marginally less frenzied than when he had first arrived.

Grumbling to himself, more to stay awake than for any purpose of reflection or invective, he wobbled away from the overhang, scanning what little he could see for anything which looked promising. The treeline boasted several apparent clumps of evergreens, which, when he investigated more closely, were packed so densely that the ground underneath was considerably drier than outside their outspread branches. "And where were you guys a few hours ago?" he asked rhetorically and unfairly.

The trees nobly ignored his unjust accusation. Still muttering under his breath, he moved a little farther into the copse, perking up as he ran a shaking hand along the branches. These were thick, long-needled evergreens -- so dense that the texture of the pliant needles felt almost like fur. Dry fur. Steve blinked, then laughed aloud at the craziness of the thought which trickled into his brain. But the needles were so thick, so soft, so dry. And dry was certainly not what he was going to be once he emerged from this temporary shelter. He touched the nearest branch again, considering, and speedily made up his mind as the sound of the newly strengthened wind howled past. Grimacing with the effort of using sore, chilled muscles, he broke off enough branches to stuff them, like a scarecrow, inside his jacket front and back, providing at least some insulation between his upper body and the wet, clinging, unpleasantly chill thing his jacket was going to become shortly. Not exactly the height of fashion, he thought wryly, but at least now he might have a chance of finding his way to some sort of civilization before he became a human ice sculpture. He was already lightheaded; he thanked the trees graciously for their donation and slowly ventured forth.

The damp had not penetrated excessively deeply yet, but it was making inexorable progress against the pine needles, and he was starting to shiver again. His legs were soaked, the weight of the chilled, wet denim of his jeans dragging at his already faltering footsteps. At least he'd already been wearing his hiking boots, Steve thought gratefully; so far, he could still feel his toes. He wished he couldn't say the same for his injured arm, however. Although the bleeding had stopped (probably too cold to bleed, he decided), the wound throbbed and burned, sometimes alternatively, more often simultaneously. And either it was infected, or he had developed some sort of chill, or worse, because he could feel the heat in his face, the cold sweat on his forehead, the tight ache in his chest, not to mention the increasing blurriness in his vision. Despite his growing weariness, he tried to take shallow breaths, as one injudicious gulp had seared down his windpipe and into his lungs as if he'd just inhaled fire, but so much colder, so much icier. Soon, he thought grumpily, he was likely to find himself talking to people who weren't there.

As he stumbled along, it slowly became apparent that his initial impression of the countryside had been correct. His lagging footsteps had led him down, back towards the floor of the canyon, possibly even to the road he and Jesse had initially been travelling, although the thick coating of snow, not to mention the limited vista presented by the continuing storm, precluded any definite determination. He arbitrarily turned to his right and began walking as fast as he dared. Eventually, an incautious step and consequent fall, while hastening the process of soaking through his protective needle stuffing, had a positive result as well. Scrabbling for purchase in order to regain his footing, Steve felt the distinctive texture of loosely packed stones under his fingers. Closer inspection indicated a gravel road, which obviously had to go somewhere. If he was lucky, he'd get there before nightfall. Staggering to his feet, he turned and slowly began to make his way down it, shivering in earnest as the icy damp permeated his body, and his fever began to rise.

Gillian had just started her evening ritual of lighting the old-fashioned hurricane lamps. Even though they housed perfectly modern bulbs, she enjoyed the antique look they provided. It's the little things, she thought philosophically, that keep one going sometimes in the face of adversity and confusion, not to mention the unknown. The last had reintroduced itself into her life with the arrival of Jesse Travis; she felt a natural ease with him she had missed since the death of her husband. She definitely intended to pursue that more thoroughly, regardless of Roger's feelings. This thought reminded her that she really needed to have a long talk with Roger Hill. While she was grateful for the help and company he had provided, especially for Paul's sake, she was not interested in any deeper relationship with him, particularly now that she had met the engaging Dr. Travis, who by all indications shared her interest.

Her reflections were interrupted by a strange thud outside. She quickly threw on the outdoor lights as Paul came running to investigate. "Mom!" he yelled. "Did you hear that?"

Gillian paused in the process of loading her dead husband's rifle. It had been Andy's favorite, and she ran an absent hand over the stock before focusing on her son. "Paul, please go stay in your room," she commanded.

He was already staring out the window, wide-eyed. "Mom, there's a man lying in the snow!"

Steve had slowly worked his way down the drive, stubbornly maintaining a fingernail grip on reality, gasping for breath as each inhalation burned the rawness that was his lungs. Please, he mumbled to himself, let there be something, anything, as long as it's indoors. The incongruity of this amused him, and he thought crazily that, the next time Jesse wanted an adventure, they were going somewhere warm, like the beach.

He blinked as a building slowly appeared, noting the lights and obvious signs of occupation with near disbelief. As he stared, additional light showed through the windows as Gillian finished with the lamps. The mirage was definitely real, and he hastened his fumbling steps, only to fall heavily as one foot slipped on a bit of snow-slick gravel. The pain in his arm crashed awake, and he watched incuriously as fresh blood welled and congealed almost immediately before the grey edges of his vision faded once more.


	6. Sanctuary

Gillian pushed the door open ever so slightly, rifle cocked and ready, edging outside to investigate her unexpected visitor. "Hey! You in the snow!" she called suspiciously. When there was no answer, she sidled a little closer, still prepared to shoot if necessary, and was alarmed to find a stranger, unconscious and bleeding, lying in her driveway, clearly oblivious to the snow soaking into his too-light clothing. She noted the awkward bandaging on his right arm, and abruptly made up her mind. "Paul! Put your coat and boots on, quickly, and come out and help me!"

He was outside in a rush, obviously having anticipated her request. Together, they managed to drag and carry their burden to the mud room, where they could remove the stranger's sodden clothing before taking him into the house, both wondering at the unusual lining of his jacket. Gillian shook her head at her son's puzzled look. "I don't know, dear. He's definitely been out in the storm for a while." She ran careful hands over the injured arm. "Go get the first aid kit and a towel. I want to wrap this up temporarily -- and start the water in the tub, not too hot, but good and warm."

"Okay, Mom." Paul ran off, and returned as speedily with the requested items. Gillian cut through Steve's makeshift bandage and removed it carefully, her breath hissing out at the sight of the ugly wound. She wondered if it hurt as badly, and jumped as an unexpected voice mirrored her thoughts.

"It looks worse than it is. I think." His voice was weak, but held a thread of amusement at her reaction.

Gillian sat back on her heels and examined her guest's face. Strong, attractive, despite the depredations of exposure and the inescapable signs of a very recent brawl. She felt a flicker of disappointment at the potential implications. "Lost the fight, I see," she remarked lightly. "You must be a tourist. Hold still, we need to get those wet things off of you and put you in a hot bath."

Steve was still too dazed to absorb her comments very quickly. "What do you mean?"

Gillian raised an eyebrow. "The residents know better than to be out this time of year without adequate protection -- surprise storms are a way of life."

He had closed his eyes. "Residents of where?" he asked dully.

Didn't this guy even know where he was? Gillian felt a glacial finger on the back of her neck. "Destiny. It's a funny name, but --"

His eyes flew open, surprise and -- alarm? -- in them. And Steve found himself staring into eyes the color of a Caribbean lagoon, clear and green as if lit from within. Incredible eyes -- he reached weakly for scattered wits; he was confused enough as it was. "You said Destiny?" he inquired feebly, feeling the slight stab of strength starting to dissipate.

"Yes." She sounded impatient. "But right now the only place you need to be concerned about being is in a warm tub."

Steve tried to protest, but the flicker of energy was finished, and he relaxed into a semi-conscious stupor, not resisting when the woman and her son finished undressing him and somehow got him on his feet, guiding his uncertain footsteps into the incredible bliss of hot water. He was still dazedly savoring the sensation of unexpected warmth seeping into bones he had thought were permanently chilled when he heard the woman's voice again.

"Let me see to your arm, please."

Half-closed eyes snapped alert, and Gillian grinned at the shock in them. "Don't tell me an attractive man like you has never had a woman bathing him in a hot tub before," she teased, laughter lurking in her eyes.

Steve blinked at her, still unable to get a decent grip on his wits. "Not by a strange woman, no."

Now the laugh bubbled out. "That's easily fixed. I'm Gillian Tolliver."

There was a pause while he absorbed the information. "Steve Sloan," he said finally, surprised at his own reluctance to identify himself.

The clear eyes rested gravely on his face for a moment, then glanced down to his arm, and he raised it hastily so that she could examine the wound. He noticed the tiny frown between her eyes, and explained. "I met a branch going the wrong way."

Her eyes flickered upward briefly. "Not to be an alarmist, but it looks like it may be infected. Snow's not as clean as you might think."

Steve winced as the small fingers pressed gently around a reddened area, and nodded at her inquiring look. "Yeah, that hurts." He closed his eyes, trying to think about anything other than the pain in his arm, his precarious situation, his best friend's unknown fate -- his uncooperative thoughts circled endlessly, and he finally reopened his eyes, preferring to concentrate on the woman working on his arm, and saw the small boy standing behind her, a shocked look on his face.

"Mom, what happened to him?"

Gillian blinked and focused on the body of her patient. She had been so intent on her ministrations to his arm after that initial quick look that the rest of the damage had not truly registered. Horrified, she digested the brutal scrapes and bruises on his face and body. "My God. What mountain did you fall off of?"

For some inexplicable reason, he couldn't tell her the whole story. Steve wondered briefly at the clamoring of his internal alarm, and decided to operate with all due caution until he could determine the cause. "I had a run-in with the wrong people. As soon as I can track down my partner, we're out of here."

Her eyes narrowed. "Partner?"

The room temperature dropped, and he shivered. "We run a barbecue restaurant." He was equally reluctant to disclose his other career.

She started to speak, but was distracted by his shivering which, having started, would not stop. "That water can't be cold already." She dipped her hand, frowning, then reached for his forehead.

"I'm sick," Steve said guilelessly, trying to be helpful.

"So I see," she replied tersely. "Paul, get me the thermometer, please." She finished cleaning her mysterious guest's wound just as the instrument beeped. Her expression as she read it was severe. "Whatever you may have been doing out there -- you're running a substantial fever right now. Lucky for you the guest bed's made up."

Steve started to protest, but the combination of the hot water and the shaking fit had sapped what small stamina he might have had, although he surfaced briefly as he heard the word "doctor".

"No. I'll be all right. I just need to rest, then I'll leave."

Gillian made a rather unladylike noise. "And find yourself flat on your face in the snow again." She wrapped a towel around him and sat him down on the bed, staring at him critically until he squirmed. "Good thing for you my husband was a big man," she commented, rummaging in a large antique armoire next to a tall lamp with an odd shade shaped like what her fascinated guest finally identified as a daffodil. Finally she emerged, triumphantly flourishing a pair of flannel pajamas, incredibly soft from repeated washings. Steve made another attempt to object, but the siren-eyed martinet simply shook her head and, with her son's help, deposited him into them firmly. With the same ruthless efficiency, she settled him in the bed, then perched alongside so she could put some amazingly rank glop on his arm and bandage it before buttoning him into the shirt.

"Yuck," he remarked, flinching back from the evil smell.

Paul snickered. "See, Mom, I told you it stinks," he said gleefully.

A dimple peered out temptingly as Gillian grinned at her son. "But it works, as you well know," she pointed out. Her smile faded as she noticed her son's eyes lingering on the lamentable discolorations on their guest's face. "Paul, I think a warm drink, and some aspirin, might do Mr. Sloan some good," she requested, obviously wanting to distract him.

The boy nodded and headed out of the room. As soon as his footsteps could be heard going down the hall, Gillian turned back to her patient. "I'm only going to say this once. If you're mixed up in something illegal, then you're out of here as soon as you can stand up without falling down, and you don't interact with my son in the meantime."

Steve blinked at her in surprise. "I'm not. I just need to find my partner and get home." He started to struggle out of bed. "I appreciate your help, but I really need to be going."

She reached out a very capable looking hand, despite its diminutive size, and pushed him lightly but effectively back against the pillows. "You're not going anywhere just yet. You need to be able to stand, remember?" Her eyes wandered over the assortment of bruises on his face, noting the blueness of the fever-bright eyes. "And I'm not sure we're not going to need the doctor."

He made another attempt to debate the issue, but was forestalled by Paul's return with aspirin tablets and a mug exuding massive amounts of steaming vapor, which the Tollivers coaxed down their reluctant guest slowly but inexorably. Exhausted by the effort and the fever, lulled by the lassitude the new-found warmth had instilled, Steve subsided with a minimum of persuasion under the covers, and slept. Hoping he would be better by morning, Gillian turned out the unusual lamp and went to make dinner, managing to fend off Paul's speculations as to Steve's appearance, her thoughts careening between the face of the attractive doctor and that of her mysterious stranger. She was positive the latter was hiding something, but what that might be eluded her.

She received a fairly substantial hint later that night, when a sudden shout awoke her. Wrapping her old, beloved robe around herself, she ran lightly down the hall, snapping on the light to find the stranger on unsteady feet, clutching the bedpost to keep from falling.

Steve stared at the new arrival with some confusion. "We need backup," he advised her hoarsely, pointing towards the bathroom door with a shaking hand. "The Naismiths are in there."

Gillian involuntarily glanced in that direction before she caught herself. "What are you doing out of bed?" she scolded gently, firmly guiding him back to the furniture in question.

Sitting down suddenly, Steve seemed to come to himself. "What's going on?" he asked, staring at her in puzzlement.

"You probably just had a bad dream," she soothed, settling him in the bed once more, thankful the noise had not roused her son. She gave Steve an intense look. "You're a cop, aren't you?"

He was already sliding away. "Not here," he mumbled. "Down south." And fell asleep just as she was about to inquire further. Too keyed up to follow his example, she wrapped herself up in a blanket and curled up in the overstuffed chair, watching Steve's face as he dreamed, diverting herself by speculating as to what his story really was.

She would not find out the next morning, however. His fever had inched upwards, and he slept restlessly, breath rasping, the pajamas soaked with sweat. Gillian looked at the thermometer with dismay, realizing she was stuck with him for at least another day or two. She made up her mind and headed for the phone.


	7. House Call

The snow had not stopped, but it was not falling nearly as hard as it had the day before, Jesse thought, peering through the window. He had a pleasant enough room, with a small fireplace even, but he had felt guilty at the thought that his best friend was stranded somewhere in the blizzard, so he had deliberately refrained from using it. He was starting to shiver, though, and the firewood was looking very appealing. He finished the excellent breakfast the proprietor, a large, kindly woman, had insisted he eat, and was starting to struggle into the borrowed coat when she called him to the phone.

It was Gillian; Jesse's world suddenly acquired a rosier hue before the guilt returned and gave him a mental wallop. "Dr. Travis? It's Gillian Tolliver. Could you possibly make another house call?"

I'd love to, he thought, until he remembered the transportation situation. "Of course. Except --" he trailed off, embarrassed.

Amazingly, she understood what he was trying to say. "I'll come get you. I can -- leave Paul for a little while."

Her voice sounded strange, especially the slight hesitation. "Is Paul --" he started to ask, but she interrupted him. "I'll be there in twenty minutes," she said hurriedly, and hung up.

Puzzling, Jesse retrieved the inherited medical bag, wondering what sudden occurrence had put that odd note of strain in Gillian's voice. When, true to her word, she arrived exactly twenty minutes later, he climbed into her ancient truck and finished his question. "Is Paul having problems?"

Gillian threw him a startled glance. "No, Paul's all right. It's -- we had a guest arrive unexpectedly, and he had an accident, while hiking. I think you'd better take a look at him."

Something was definitely off, but he couldn't pinpoint it. Her attention, however, was clearly focused on the still treacherous road, so any questions about her "guest" or the antiquated vehicle would obviously have to wait. He would find out soon enough.

The patient could hear the low murmur of voices in the next room, and wondered vaguely if they were talking about him. He considered calling out, but it seemed to be too much trouble. He was definitely uncomfortable, though; daylight was pouring in through the curtains and battering at his eyelids mercilessly. If he was to go back to sleep with any degree of success, he was going to have to force his sluggish body to roll over, regardless of its inclinations to the contrary. Taking a deep breath, he made an effort and rolled to his right, away from the unwelcome sun, and landed hard on his injured arm.

Steve jerked from his somnolent state abruptly as fire raced up his arm, a grunt of pain escaping him involuntarily. He lay frozen, eyes squeezed tightly shut, as he tried to ride out the agony in his arm as well as the other screaming, newly awakened nerve endings in his abused body, ribs naturally doing their best to outyell the rest. Outside his room, the voices halted, and he heard footsteps, presumably belonging to the owners of the voices, come into the room.

Then a voice he knew. "Oh, my God. Steve."

And a familiar touch on his wrist and forehead as his best friend once again became his doctor, prying his clenched eyelids open. "Where the hell have you been, Steve? I've been worried sick."

He focused one bleary eye on his partner. "Playing in the snow, Jess."

"I see that." Jesse's voice was grim. "Gillian, would you mind bringing some water? I'm going to take this bandage off." He returned his attention to his patient, and flushed at the raised eyebrow. "What?"

"Gillian?" Steve inquired, with considerable emphasis.

The red deepened. "We met yesterday. I came out to look at her son," Jesse said carefully, attempting to sound nonchalant despite the betraying color. He deliberately started to undo the bandages on Steve's arm on the premise that he could distract his friend from additional teasing.

His assumption was correct; Steve flinched in spite of himself as Jesse worked a particularly recalcitrant piece free. "Jess --" he started, breath hissing out as the bit of bandage gave.

Jesse slid him a stern look from under his lashes. "Let that be a lesson to you. No jumping about or fussing at your doctor." His eyebrows lowered as he frowned at the ugly wound. "How did you do this, Steve?"

Steve scowled at him. "I fell."

Some information was obviously missing, and Jesse was not amused. "Fell how? And where?"

"I told you," Steve replied grumpily. "I was out in the storm. Fell and stabbed myself with a branch. Not," he added with a certain understandable asperity, "that I went out in it on purpose."

Jesse stared at him. "What are you talking about? They said you'd escaped. They told me they'd searched for you until the weather got too severe."

His best friend laughed, a short, ugly sound. "I don't think so, Jess. I remember passing out after you left with Hill. Next thing I know, I'm waking up halfway up the canyon, lying in the snow, without even that so-called blanket. Bastard had them dump me there."

"Flynn and what's-his-name, Howard?" Jesse asked automatically.

"Yeah. Sorry excuses for deputies. I guess they figured I'd die of exposure or encounter the proverbial mountain lion or something."

There was a sudden thud, followed by a splash, as the bowl Gillian was carrying hit the floor, splattering water in all directions. She ignored it. "What did you say?" she asked urgently, advancing into the room.

Jesse stepped in before Steve could repeat the accusation. "Steve, Gillian and Sheriff Hill --"

"Are friends, old friends," she interrupted. "Is there a problem, Jesse?"

Oh, so that's how it was, Steve thought. Then the situation rapidly went downhill, as Gillian turned those sea eyes on him. "You were saying something about John Howard?"

Steve was still too foggy to think clearly. "Yeah. He and his pal Flynn left me out in the canyon in the storm. That's how I ended up on your doorstep."

She stared at him. "And I am to assume that you're accusing Roger Hill of having something to do with it?"

Steve saw Jesse's stricken expression too late. "Yes."

Her voice was even, quiet, and frosty. "You're saying the man who got me through the first months after my husband was killed in a hunting accident, the man who has tried to be a surrogate father to my son, deliberately ordered what amounts to your murder."

His eyes and tone were equally chilly. "Yes, I am."

Gillian glanced at Jesse, who was occupying himself wiping up the spilled water, then returned her focus to the man in the bed. "I don't believe you."

Steve started to shrug, and grimaced with pain at the injudicious movement. "That's your prerogative. But it's a cold, hard fact that Roger Hill tried to kill me almost twelve years ago because I was going to turn him in to Internal Affairs, and he lost his shield as a result -- and he's the one responsible for most of the black and blue marks you mentioned before." A wince as excessively helpful ribs twinged, as if to corroborate his statement. "And I truly doubt Howard and Flynn acted on their own initiative."

Tiny little flames were leaping in her eyes. "I suppose you think he had something to do with my husband's death, too."

Steve was sick, hurting and generally fed up with Destiny and its inhabitants. "Got him closer to you, didn't it?"

Jesse sucked in a breath at his partner's deliberate offensiveness; Gillian ignored him and stepped closer to the bed so her voice wouldn't carry out into the hall. "Roger was Andy's deputy, and his best friend. He was devastated when Andy died." The cold eyes flicked towards the window and back to Steve's face. "The weather's going to turn again soon. Dr. Travis, I'd appreciate it if you'd get your friend ready to leave. I'll drive you back to town. What you do then is up to you -- but I want you both out of my house." She turned on her heel and stalked out, leaving unrelieved tension in her stead.

Jesse finished his self-imposed chore and stood up with the bowl in his hands. "I'm going to get some more water," he said shortly, and exited in his turn, leaving his best friend glumly contemplating the prospect of the long, uncomfortable drive back to Los Angeles.


	8. Honor Among Friends

Gillian had retreated to her room, where she slumped down on the bed and stared into the mirror, perturbed by her own behavior. Even as the anger caused by Steve's accusations had coursed through her, she had felt the pull of those vivid blue eyes, had been drawn by their intensity. She found herself automatically comparing her visitors, until she realized with a start that, despite his rudeness and disturbing claims, she was more intrigued by Steve than his friend, who was obviously much more kind and considerate. What was wrong with her, she wondered; this should have been a no-brainer. And, in any event, she wanted them to leave -- she thought. She rubbed her hands over her face, took a deep breath, and went to find Jesse so she could apologize for her outburst.

She had her hand on the doorknob when she heard low voices inside, and the obvious strain in both as she stood listening persuaded her to rethink her plan. Instead, she turned and headed for the kitchen, with the idea of making them sandwiches as a peace offering, casting a worried eye at the darkening sky as she walked through the living room.

The first faint trickle of renewed snowflakes was starting to fall, but the temperature inside the guest room was far chillier as Jesse finished rebandaging Steve's arm and raised angry eyes to his friend's face. "I want to check your ribs," he said curtly.

Steve pushed the hands away. "They're fine," he said mendaciously. "Jess --"

Jesse shook his head. "I don't want to hear it, Steve. Now let me see your ribs."

Steve stared at him. "Not until you tell me what you've got going with Gillian."

His best friend glared back, obviously contemplating physical mayhem. "Why? So you can tell me how stupid I'm being?" he snapped.

Steve blinked. "No. I just want to know what's going on --"

"What's going on," Jesse interrupted, "is that any chance I might have had for any kind of meaningful relationship with a very attractive woman, who seemed to return my feelings, has now gone down the toilet, thanks to you."

Stung, Steve retorted, "Oh, and Roger Hill doesn't come into consideration here at all?"

Jesse shook his head. "I don't know -- but they are friends. However -- she wasn't looking at me like just a friend -- or at least until you started in on him."

The fact that Jesse essentially was right gave him pause momentarily, but Steve ignored the twinge of conscience. "And just what would have happened when Hill found out? Or hadn't you planned that far ahead?"

"Steve, you don't understand."

He shook his head, trying not to wince. "No, Jess, you don't understand. Hill is an amoral, opportunistic psychopath. I'll bet anything he was involved in Tolliver's so-called accident. He finds us here, we're sitting ducks -- and then Gillian and Paul's safety is compromised as well."

Jesse stared at him coldly, unwilling to consider the possible truth in Steve's words. "Obviously nothing I can say is going to convince you otherwise. So let's get you some clothes and get out of here before you and Hill go for round two."

Steve sighed in exasperation. "Jess --" he started, but was interrupted by Gillian, who looked as if she was trying to ignore the last part of the conversation.

"Here are some clothes which might fit," she said, her tone deliberately neutral. Steve took them, thanking her equally colorlessly, and withdrew to the bathroom, shaking his head briefly in response to Jesse's automatic but not particularly sincere offer to help. The young doctor frowned at his friend's back and turned to Gillian, who was gazing in that same direction pensively. "Gillian, I --"

She put a hand on his arm. "Don't apologize; I understand." She flicked another concerned glance at the window. "I'm going to check the weather report," she said quickly, and slipped out, leaving him to sink down on the bed, where he leaned his chin onto his hands, contemplating the closed bathroom door and his own conflicting emotions. Thus distracted, he hardly noticed when Steve emerged, good arm thrust through the sleeve of a denim work shirt, injured arm hanging awkwardly.

"Jess? I could use some help with this if you don't mind --"

Unhappy brown eyes met perturbed blue ones; then Jesse sighed and stood up. "Yeah, sure, Steve. I'm sorry -- this isn't your fault."

Steve's mouth twisted. "I haven't helped the situation any." He looked around. "Where is Gillian, anyway?"

Hands occupied with easing the wounded arm into its sleeve, Jesse jerked his head sideways. "Probably in the kitchen -- that's where the radio is."

"Radio?" Steve asked, trying to suppress the twinge of alarm.

Jesse nodded. "Weather report. She seems to think the storm will get worse."

Steve directed a glance at the window. "It doesn't look good out there." He squared his shoulders and secured the final button. "I'm going to go bite the bullet and apologize to the lady of the house." He held up a hand as Jesse started to speak. "Jess, let me go eat crow, okay? Trust me." He turned and headed for the door, trying not to limp too visibly.

Gillian was in the kitchen, worriedly regarding the world outside as a not very encouraging forecast crackled out of the radio speaker. She turned as he entered, and he felt an unexpected jolt as the clear eyes met his. "Gillian --" he started, and stopped, temporarily at a loss for words.

Those disturbing eyes glanced outside again, then returned to focus on him. "What is it, Steve?"

Another shock at her unexpected use of his first name, and the caress in her voice as she said it. He had a disconcerting feeling of teetering on the edge of a pit, and grabbed at his reason for seeking her out in an effort to regain his emotional balance. "Gillian, I'm sorry. What I said before -- I was out of line. I didn't mean to --"

Before he could finish, she was standing in front of him, delicate face raised, sea eyes compelling. "It's all right," she breathed, and the small hands whose competence he had already had occasion to notice reached up to pull his head down to hers, as his arms circled her automatically and their mouths met. He lost himself temporarily in the intoxication of it before sanity thundered through his brain. Infinitely gently, he disengaged her hands and drew back slightly.

"Gillian. That -- that was very nice --" His wits, having successfully fended off immediate danger, now fled cravenly at the prospect of explaining himself.

She watched the emotions flicker across his face, debating whether to help him or not. Not. "But?" she asked.

Steve was visibly uncomfortable. "But I --" Gillian merely gave him an expectant look, and he resigned himself to his fate. "I'm -- I'm involved with someone."

Strangely enough, it didn't feel like an excuse, nor did it bother him to say it. She remained silent, and some perverse force encouraged him to continue. "Seriously involved," he added, realizing with almost pleased shock that the statement was true, and that his confused heart had finally made its decision, bearing out the promise made to him by his alleged kinsman that fateful day months earlier.

Gillian gave him an appraising look. "That's a shame," she said calmly. "Are you sure?"

He nodded, still marveling at the revelation. Finally, his voice found itself. "I'm sorry, Gillian. If circumstances --"

She smiled. "Were different. I understand."

He waited, but she seemed disinclined to continue. After a lengthy, awkward moment, Steve cleared his throat. Time to do something helpful for Jesse for a change. "Besides, I couldn't do that to Jesse. He's my best friend."

Gillian looked startled. "Do what?"

Steve smiled down at her. "Jesse's interested in you, you know."

She blushed. "I -- know." And, as Steve waited patiently, she added, "He seems like a good person."

Steve's expression sobered. "Seems, nothing. I'd trust him with my life."

"You're probably right," Gillian said thoughtfully. "Maybe I should give him the opportunity." She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. "Thank you, Steve."

After returning the embrace, Steve extricated himself gently. "I'll leave you to it, then," he said, and limped off towards the living room, where he sank gratefully into a chair to wait, frustrated by his weakness.

Jesse found him there shortly thereafter. "I thought you were looking for Gillian," he remarked acidly.

Disturbed by the worsening view through the window, Steve failed to notice the bite in his friend's voice. "I already did," he replied shortly, preoccupied by the snow.

"And I gather you resolved the problem?" Jesse inquired.

This time, the edge registered. "What is it with you, Jess?" Steve asked, irritated. "First you fuss because I upset her. I make peace with her, and you're still not happy. Just what is it you want me to do?"

"Don't you have enough women in your life right now?" Jesse demanded, obviously making an effort to hold onto his temper.

Totally lost, Steve stared at him, mouth open; then the penny dropped. "Jess, I didn't -- I wasn't --"

His best friend's voice was cold. "Weren't what? Weren't kissing her in the kitchen? Just what would you call it, then?"

Steve swore under his breath. "Jess, listen to me. I -- it wasn't what you think."

"And wasn't what I saw, either?"

Jesse had moved towards the other window in his agitation; Steve twisted to face him and grunted involuntarily as his midsection protested. Jesse twitched reflexively, but stood his ground, correctly assuming any medical admonishment from him would not be well received, as Steve stood up slowly. "And just what was it you saw, Jess?"

Jesse automatically took a step back; even in his weakened condition, Steve looked suddenly -- dangerous. "You were kissing her," he said defensively. "After all that snarling at each other, there you were with a lip lock on her. And you knew I'm interested in her. And," he added unexpectedly and not entirely fairly, "just how do you expect me to look Cheryl in the eyes after that?"

"What?" The snap in Steve's response would probably have been more impressive if his voice hadn't cracked on the word. His left hand instinctively seeking the support of the chair back, Steve swallowed and tried again. "What are you talking about, Jess?" he asked slowly.

Dispassionately, Jesse took notice of the white-knuckled hand and the slight tremor in the voice, but wisely refrained from pointing out his friend's obvious weakness. But the unexpected panic in the blue eyes dismayed him; had Steve really thought he had successfully concealed his feelings for his partner? He shook his head. "Never mind."

Too late. The grip on the chair tightened along with the muscles in Steve's face. "No, Jess. You weren't just aimlessly tossing invective. You meant what you said." The strained look was deepening as his body objected to its upright position, until Jesse could bear it no longer. "All right, I'll tell you -- if you'll sit down before you fall down."

He would have refused, but his vision was starting to acquire ominously grey edges, and his knees really didn't feel particularly steady anyway. Steve nodded and sank into his chair wordlessly, trying not to gasp with relief. "Talk to me, Jess."

Jesse pulled another chair closer and flopped into it. "Steve -- you're in love with Cheryl, aren't you." The silence which met his comment was unsettling; he gathered his nerves and rushed on. "Ever since that weird business with that sea-thing --"

"Selkie," Steve said automatically and somewhat grumpily.

"Whatever. It's been pretty obvious --"

Now Steve definitely looked alarmed. "Obvious?"

Jesse shook his head. "Whoa. To me, Amanda, Mark -- not the whole world, maybe."

A startled blink. "Dad, I can see -- but you and Amanda too?"

"Steve -- we're your best friends."

It was said simply, quietly, but, in conjunction with his mounting guilt for his earlier behavior, it stabbed deeply. He ran his tongue over suddenly dry lips, ashamed and at a loss for words. "Jess --" The other man said nothing, waiting, and Steve forced the words out. "I'm truly sorry, Jess. Gillian -- it really was unintentional -- and we neither one of us meant it."

Temporarily distracted from the other burning question, stung by the remark, Jesse demanded, "Then why did you do it?"

Steve shook his head. "I don't know, Jess. Neither did she." He raised his head to look his best friend in the eyes. "But we both realized it was a mistake -- she doesn't want me, and I --"

"Want Cheryl," Jesse said inexorably. "What are you going to do about it?"

Steve damned the post-injury illness and weakness which refused to let him out of his chair. Anywhere but here, any time but now, he thought. Then a memory of luminescent eyes and velvet mouth pushed its way gently but firmly into his awareness, and he finally acceded to its irresistible demand. "I guess I'll have to tell her, won't I?" he ventured carefully, still apprehensive about turning his feelings into reality by virtue of the spoken word.

His best friend stared at him somberly. "That would be the best approach, don't you think?" Steve didn't respond, and Jesse's irritation percolated again. "Steve, did you think if you waited long enough, she'd do it for you?"

Steve looked uncomfortable. "I've -- that's usually when things start going down the tubes." Jesse remained unhelpfully silent, so he continued reluctantly, "Even Rachel -- once it turned into a normal relationship, it went south. We're not --"

"And then there's Cheryl," Jesse pointed out obligingly.

"Yes." Steve blew out a breath and shifted, trying to get comfortable. The movement sent a grimace of pain flitting across his face, and Jesse relented.

"Steve, I don't think the weather's going to let up any time soon, and you need rest. I'm going to give you something for that arm, and I want you to take a nice, long nap."

"Jess, I'm all right," Steve protested unconvincingly.

The eyes were dull, the voice threadier than he liked. "You promised not to argue with your doctor, remember? I swear I'll wake you as soon as we can travel."

Steve managed a small grin. "You just want some time alone with Gillian."

"There is that too," Jesse agreed. He left the room and returned with his bag, rummaging through it until he found what he needed. "I mean it, Steve. For you right now, sleep is most important." He administered the sedative to a surprisingly cooperative patient, noting with satisfaction the gradual loosening of the clenched left fist. "We'll deal with how you're going to tell Cheryl later."

Steve was just exhausted enough for the medication to kick in quickly, and his world was developing kindly, fuzzy corners. "Have to tell her I love her," he mumbled, "soon's we take care of Hill."

What? Jesse thought with sudden alarm, and reached to shake the other man back to lucidity, but his efforts were rewarded only with a soft snore. Reluctantly, he straightened, tucking the thought away for future handling, and, after arranging an afghan over the sleeper, wandered off hopefully in search of the lady of the house.


	9. Flashback

The auburn-haired man looked cold despite his leather jacket, the waitress thought, heading his way with the fresh pot of coffee. And tense, she decided as she reached his table and got a good look at the grimness lurking in his eyes and the set of his jaw. "Coffee, sir?" she asked kindly, and filled his mug after receiving an absent nod. She put the pot down and pulled out her pad. "Take your order, sir?"

"What? -- Oh." He had been a million miles away, food the last thing on his mind. His gaze flickered quickly to the menu in front of him. "Uh -- hamburger, medium, fries, that's fine." He assured her the fixings were acceptable and returned his gaze to the window, although the street outside barely registered. He had to find some solution to his dilemma, and soon.

Footsteps approached, and he turned his head to see a slightly older man, similarly dressed, slide into the opposite booth. "So what's the occasion, Steve?"

He was still distracted. "What?"

Detective Roger Hill gave his partner a tolerant look. "I told you I'd help you study for your exam. You don't have to buy me lunch."

Steve Sloan took a sip of coffee, barely noticing the rich taste, and slid his hands around the mug, unconsciously seeking its warmth. Just do it, he thought. Get it out in the open and over with. "Roger -- I know what you've been doing."

The other man's face held a pleasant look of inquiry, but Steve's tense scrutiny could discern the sudden wariness in Hill's eyes. "What I've been doing? Of course you do -- you're my partner."

Guilt at the reminder washed through him, and Steve's jaw tightened momentarily. "That's not what I meant."

The wary eyes developed a certain frostiness. "Maybe you should spell it out then, Steve."

This wasn't fair, Steve thought resentfully. His own career, so solid and promising till now, was in serious danger of sinking into oblivion, and he still couldn't believe he was the only cop in the entire district who was aware of Roger Hill's dirty little sideline, much less opposed to it. But his own position was foreseeably becoming more precarious the longer the issue remained unaddressed, and he really had precious few options available to him at this point.

"Roger -- I know about your arrangement with Andrews and his operation. You've been helping him out for at least two years that I can tell, if not longer. How much is he paying you to keep him and his henchmen out of jail?"

The pleasant look had vanished, to be replaced by a cold stare. "That's a pretty serious accusation -- partner." Hill paused, but Steve seemed to be waiting for something. After a minute, the older man continued, "Do you have anything solid to back it up? Or --"

Or do you want to invite the wrath of the police brotherhood by violating its paramount unwritten law. The unspoken words lay between them, oozing ugliness. Tension knotting in his stomach, Steve forced himself to respond.

"Yes, I do. But -- you're right, Roger. We're partners. I don't want to have to turn you in."

Hill snorted. "So just what is your point?"

He was fairly sure his request would be shot down summarily, but he had to try. "Do it yourself, Rog. Please. Tell them it was -- unplanned, you were trapped. Ask for help. They'll go easier on you --"

Hill snorted again. "Are you out of your mind? Even if that were true, it wouldn't make any difference. Bye-bye, badge, bennies, pension, everything." He stared at Steve, menace and warning in his gaze. "Here's my suggestion. You even get two choices. One, you pretend you know nothing."

Steve's mouth was even drier, if that was humanly possible. "And the other?" he asked cautiously, trying not to let Hill see or hear the dread he felt.

The other man's eyes were implacable. "Two -- you join up. Extra cash can't hurt. Either way, no one talks."

He felt sick. This had been a mistake from the start. His partner wasn't about to relinquish the extra income. And he was totally screwed. Even if he said nothing, no one would believe, once the bottom eventually dropped out, that he had not known or, worse yet, been involved himself.

Hill broke in on his frantic thoughts. "If I were you, Sloan, I'd think real hard about putting in for a transfer. And keeping my mouth shut." He rose. "Thanks for lunch -- partner."

Steve watched the other man leave, miserably aware that he had handled the situation less than effectively. Somehow, he had to find an acceptable resolution to his quandary, and soon.

It came sooner, and not quite as acceptably, than he expected. They were halfway through a late night shift when the call came through; the alarm had been tripped at a jewelry store barely minutes from their location. On seeing darkened windows, Hill signaled Steve to circle around to the back of the building while he investigated the front.

Having negotiated the back door lock, Steve was cautiously and noiselessly advancing down the corridor when he heard gunshots. He ran forward, gun ready, to be brought to a skidding halt by the sight of the would-be burglar on the floor, definitely dead, Hill kneeling beside him. "Self-defense, I take it," he remarked, letting his left arm drop to his side and starting to walk forward.

"Right," Hill answered. "And so is this." He lifted the dead man's hand and fired the gun in it directly at Steve.

His startled brain absorbed the action too late for him to do more than start to fling himself out of the way, and he was slammed back by the force of the bullets tearing into his body, two, three, no, four before shock interceded and awareness faded. He never saw the other man's mouth twist as he fell, nor did he hear the muttered, "Sorry, kid. You were one of the good ones."

The man sleeping in the easy chair by the fire muttered indistinctly, and shifted as if seeking a more comfortable position, but did not awaken; the sedative maintained its hold on his consciousness, and he subsided back into his dream.

There were lights, and voices, and hands prodding at him, hurting him even, although the voices soothed and promised to make the pain go away. The grey world was less crowded, uncomfortable, and complicated, and he sought refuge there as much as possible until another, beloved voice intervened.

"Son. You need to wake up and start breathing on your own. Your sister and I need you." It sounded like his father, but so uncertain, so forlorn -- not like Mark's usual competent tone at all. Then the voice broke, and he found he couldn't bear the thought of his father's distress.

"Dad?" He couldn't hear his own voice, couldn't talk around the tube in his throat, so he settled for pushing leaden eyelids open, to be rewarded by the look of joy and relief on his father's face.

"Steve. Thank God. I thought --" Mark's voice cracked again, and he settled for gently squeezing the hand which had clung to his so tightly for the last several, ghastly hours. His free hand smoothed back the tumbled hair from the injured man's forehead as he struggled and failed to control the emotion in his voice. "It's all right, son, you can rest now. And Roger took down the man who shot you --"

He had to talk, had to make his father understand. But he was still surrounded by the fog of drugs and lurking pain, and, when he sought the memory, it fuzzed and receded until he wasn't sure himself what had happened. It would have to keep, he thought muzzily, and slid back into unconsciousness again.

With a small moan, the man in the chair shifted again, trying to escape the images, but wakefulness was still too far away, and his dreaming continued relentlessly.

He was incredibly lucky, they told him. He had taken wounds to his right thigh, shoulder and arm, the last of which punched through the bone and required a cast down to his elbow. But the bullet which had caused the most concern had hit him in the chest; only his attempt to evade the shots had saved his life. The bullet had snaked between heart and lungs, nicking one lung slightly but otherwise sliding through with a miraculously minimal amount of damage. He had lost a lot of blood, however, and the lung injury had caused anxious vigils by Mark and other hospital personnel at Community General, where the tall, pleasant, handsome cop was popular for his own sake as well as his father's.

The chest tube exchanged for the less obtrusive but not particularly less uncomfortable nasal apparatus, Steve stared at his father as he absorbed the tally and extent of his injuries. His throat still raw from the invasive plastic, he held his peace until he heard the fateful words.

"Roger's been checking on you every day, either in person or by phone."

The memory he had misplaced earlier surfaced abruptly. "I'll bet he has!" Steve croaked, outrage clear in his voice despite its roughness.

Mark blinked at his son, startled. "Steve -- he's your partner. And he feels terrible about what happened." Misconstruing the anger in Steve's expression, he continued, "But he did manage to stop the shooter, although I'm afraid the man's dead."

He couldn't stand this. "Convenient for him. Dad --" The coughing struck then, and it was a few minutes before his father would allow him to speak. "Dad -- the shooter was dead when I got there."

Mark's eyebrows rose. "Son -- you're saying that --"

"That Roger shot me. With the burglar's gun. I saw it just before --" Steve shuddered and broke off, still coughing, before the sickness from the revelation could hit.

His father still looked incredulous. "Roger? Your own partner? Steve -- I don't understand."

He wished he didn't. Despite his unwelcome knowledge, he had liked and respected Roger Hill, had appreciated the more experienced detective's willingness to help him learn, and was truly dismayed by the foulness which had emerged. Slowly, due to both the tenor of the telling and the increasingly frequent bouts of coughing, Steve told his father the whole sordid story, eventually gasping to a halt.

Mark automatically checked tubes and IVs, then stroked back the recalcitrant forelock which had flopped over again due to its owner's agitation. "The way I see it, son, there's only one possible solution."

Steve stared up miserably, shocked by the rare chill in his father's eyes and voice. "Dad -- if I turn him in-"

Mark's expression was stony. "You don't have any choice. Besides, while obviously you're going to have to deal with the fallout from the investigation, it's out of your hands now."

He was confused, and starting to hurt. Badly. "Out of my hands?" he repeated thickly, feeling like an idiot.

His father nodded. "You're forgetting I have a duty as a doctor, not to mention as chief of staff here. I have to report it."

Steve didn't have the energy to argue, much less when he knew Mark was right. He nodded weakly and closed his eyes, hoping he and his career would survive the self-destruction of Roger Hill's.

Ultimately, he did. It was difficult at first to handle the questions from Internal Affairs, not to mention the curious stares and, worse, the turned backs and sudden silence from his compatriots after he was finally cleared to go back to work. But he set his teeth and did his job, grimly enduring the ostracism, and eventually his dedication to his work and the strength of his personality convinced all but the strongest Hill supporters. He had always been well-liked; and his popularity returned along with a new respect among his peers for his courageous handling of an obviously perilous situation.

All but Roger Hill, of course. He had resorted to murder as a solution already; and Steve read it in Hill's eyes on the day he testified at Hill's disposition hearing in lieu of trial. He had outrun the destiny the other man had planned for him once; Hill's bleak eyes promised to revisit it if their paths ever crossed again.

Steve woke with a jolt, gasping. The dream was still fresh, almost as much as in the days immediately following Hill's expulsion from the force and sentencing to a white-collar facility halfway across the country, where his former occupation would not necessarily be an issue. Despite the simmering pain in his arm, Steve's right hand instinctively drifted to guard his abused ribs as he reluctantly recognized the likelihood that the two of them would indeed meet again before he could manage to extricate himself from Destiny.


	10. Jesse Gets the Girl

When Jesse found her, Gillian was still in the kitchen, trying to distract herself from the complications attached to her guests. Smitten, he paused in the doorway, watching her work in contented silence until she became aware of his regard and glanced up. "Jesse. I'm afraid the weather report's not very encouraging."

He strolled closer to inspect the biscuits in progress. "Still in a hurry to get rid of me, Gillian?" he asked teasingly.

Taken aback by the underlying intimacy of his tone, she returned her attention to her hands, taking refuge in cutting precise circles in the dough with a small glass. After a few moments, however, she realized he was still observing her intently, and took a deep breath. "Yes. No. I don't know." With a slightly hysterical tinge as she heard herself babbling, she asked faintly, "Coffee?"

From the aroma, he could tell it was gloriously fresh. "Sure. I'll get it -- don't stop what you're doing."

She was already in motion, and their hands met on the coffeepot handle. Flustered for one of the few times in her life, Gillian watched in bemusement as Jesse gently replaced the pot, captured her free hand, and bent his head to hers.

Some time later, how long, neither one was quite certain, Jesse straightened up and smiled down at the entrancing woman in his arms. "I guess that answers my question," he said slowly, not quite able to suppress the hint of inquiry at the end.

Gillian toyed with the thought of letting him wonder, then dismissed it as being excessively unkind. "I think I can safely say I don't begrudge the time to get to know you better," she replied carefully. "Although -- with you in L.A. -- I don't know how I would feel about the long distance aspect --"

He rubbed his thumb over the small hand, marveling at the combination of delicacy and competence. "Plenty of time for that, dear. In the meantime -- the big kid's asleep, and Paul's doing homework; maybe we should make the most of the opportunity."

Mischief in her eyes, she took another glass from the cupboard. "Ever made biscuits?"

Sorry this is short – but Jesse and Gillian deserve to have one chapter to themselves!


	11. Confrontation

The biscuits safely out of the oven and cooling contentedly, despite Jesse's repeated and largely successful efforts to distract the cook, Gillian pulled away from her suitor as she heard movement in the living room. "I think he's awake," she commented with a grin, making a hasty attempt to smooth her hair.

Jesse automatically turned to check the weather outside, and stiffened. "Isn't that Hill's SUV at the end of the drive?"

She joined him at the window, peering out in her turn. "Yes -- but I don't see Roger anywhere."

"Probably checking around back for signs of Steve," Jesse said grimly. "We'd better get him back in the guest room before Hill wants in." Already in motion towards the living room, he stopped abruptly at the sight of his friend, who was standing stiffly in the middle of the room. Steve turned a strained look on him and made to speak, but was interrupted by the sheriff's voice.

"Well, doc. I kind of expected you to be around. Walk in -- slowly." Then, with a quickly-squelched trace of shock, "Gillian. I'm sorry, but I think you'd better go make sure you and Paul stay in his room. This is business."

She glared at him, trusted friend turned malicious stranger. "What are you doing, Roger? How many people have to get hurt before you're willing to put a stop to this senseless vendetta of yours?"

Hill's eyes were hot, but his voice betrayed no indication of it. "Only one, my dear," he said tonelessly. "Then we can all get on with our lives." He jerked his head towards the door. "Move it, Sloan."

Steve sneered at him with a brazenness he didn't exactly feel, the tension of his body giving the lie to the forced tone. "So you can throw me off the side of a mountain accidentally again? I don't think so."

The other man shrugged. "Suit yourself. Either you walk out of here in handcuffs, or I put a bullet in you and drag you."

Steve shook his head. "Sorry, Hill. I'm not playing. You can stay here and play king of this godforsaken petty hill you've made for yourself, but I'm done with this."

"What are you saying?" Hill snarled, face reddening.

Steve shrugged in his turn. "I'm over it, Roger, old buddy old pal. I don't care whether you sit in this town and brood over what I did to you twelve years ago for the rest of your life; I'm not going to help you solve your problem. The hell with Destiny -- I'm going home."

Hill gave him a measuring look, then nodded to himself and put his revolver down carefully. "You're right. Shooting you isn't the answer."

Steve raised an eyebrow and turned away, and the other man threw himself at him, fists driving hard. Initially dazed by the attack, Steve pulled his wits together and fought back, although not quite quickly enough to avoid a jarring blow to his bad arm, nor was his recovery fast enough to keep the sheriff from noticing his reaction. Hill's eyes narrowed briefly with satisfaction, and he continued to pound the injury with one beefy hand while searching for Steve's throat with the other one. Neither man able to get a secure grip, the combatants rolled over and over, both seeking the upper hand, each flinching away from the blows of the other, while Jesse and Gillian watched, appalled, temporarily stunned by the suddenness and severity of the confrontation. Finally, the turning point came. Steve took one punch too many on his wounded arm, and his grip on Hill slackened. The sheriff seized the opportunity, right hand sliding towards his belt.

Jesse saw it first. "Steve, watch out! He's got a knife!"

The warning kept him from severe injury, but fire still burned across his chest, and Hill raised his arm to try again. Wincing, Steve grabbed at the descending blade, missed, and settled for punching hard at Hill's arm as it came down. Pain streaked through his good shoulder as the knife sliced down, and he jabbed viciously at Hill's face, grimacing at the misery in his right arm. It worked; Hill rolled away, his grip loosening, in his attempt to escape the punishing fist. Both men staggered to their feet, maddened and bloody, and Jesse made a desperate attempt to stop them before the next round commenced.

"Sheriff -- do you really want to convince Steve that he was right twelve years ago?"

The sudden non sequitur halted the antagonists in their tracks, and they turned identical looks of mystification on the young doctor. "What?" they both spluttered, panting for breath.

Jesse edged sideways, trying to distract Hill from focusing on Steve. "Don't you realize Steve's always wondered, just a little, whether he did the right thing?"

Hill merely stared, mouth open, but Steve shook his head in consternation. "What the devil are you talking about, Jess?"

Jesse spared him a quick look before returning his attention to Hill, who still looked baffled, knife dangling from his hand. "I'm your best friend, remember? I know these things. Besides," he added belatedly, "We heard you a little while ago -- I guess you were dreaming."

The sheriff shook himself. "Am I supposed to believe that Sloan's been having attacks of conscience all these years on my account?" he inquired with understandable sarcasm.

Jesse grimaced. "Would you rather believe you deserved what you got?" he asked rhetorically, trying to evade the question.

Hill laughed, not a pleasant sound. "That really doesn't matter now, does it? I'm stuck here in this backwater, trying to make the best of it, trying to rebuild my life, and Mr. Boy Scout shows up trying to ruin it again." He hefted the knife purposefully and started forward.

Jesse stepped in front of him, determined to find some way to stop the lunacy. "You don't want to do this, Sheriff. Really."

Aghast, Steve forced weary feet ahead inch by flagging inch. "Jess, get out of the way! Are you out of your mind?"

"No, Steve," the young doctor replied, with a calm his shaking insides didn't share. "I may be the only one here who isn't."

Hill stared at him in disbelief, then shook his head. "Enough of this," he growled in exasperation. "Sorry, doc. I would have liked to have you stick around -- but you're in my way."

All but forgotten, Gillian watched in horror as all three men started to move, almost in slow motion, although her conscious mind said otherwise. Hill leaned forward, intent on getting by or through Jesse, whichever was easiest. That young man sensibly stepped backwards from the larger man's attack, slipping and falling out of the way; and Steve flung himself hurtling forward between the two, left arm upraised, aiming for Hill's knife hand. He cannoned into the sheriff, knocking him off balance, but the latter recovered and calmly, deliberately, slammed the knife hard into his unprotected side. Steve's body jerked from the force of the blow, and he instinctively grabbed for the wound, breath sucking in with a moan as Hill drew his arm back, bringing the knife with it. The ghastly slow motion continued; clutching his side with both hands, Steve sank to his knees, trying to absorb the shock of the injury. "Jess --" he gasped, blood oozing through his fingers.

"Damn you, Hill!" Jesse snarled, scuttling over to his friend and literally shoving the sheriff out of the way, ignoring the fact that Hill was still holding a bloody knife. "Gillian, my bag --"

She was already running off to get it, returning to see Hill casually walk over to retrieve his revolver. She sent the bag skidding across the floor to Jesse and ducked out of the room again before anyone could notice.

Hill strolled back to stand over the wounded man and the irate doctor. "I think it's time to finish this," he remarked, gun in hand.

Jesse's expostulation was interrupted by the distinct sound of a rifle being primed. "You're absolutely right, Roger," Gillian said coldly. "Drop the gun."

At first inclined to ignore her, Hill caught the tone and slowly slid his eyes in her direction, to see her pointing her husband's favorite rifle in his direction. "Gillian, are you crazy?" he demanded furiously.

"No." Her voice dripped ice. "I'm sure you recognize Andy's gun, Roger. If you don't want it blowing a hole in you, move away from Steve and put the gun down."

He heard the unspoken accusation in her voice. This was patently unfair; his life was already in a shambles, once again thanks to Sloan. "I didn't kill Andy, Gillian. It really was an accident." But he didn't move, and the gun remained steady in his hand.

Steve peered up through a red haze of pain. "Roger, for God's sake, listen to her. She's trying to keep you from ruining the rest of your life."

"Think about Paul if you don't care about yourself," Jesse chipped in, frantically applying pressure to Steve's wounds and hoping madly that his logic would have some beneficial effect on the infuriated sheriff.

Affection for Paul and Gillian, and the desire for normalcy, fought a bitter, but ultimately losing, battle against malice fueled by long-standing resentment and the overwhelming desire for vengeance. Hill heaved a long breath, almost a sigh, and shook his head. "Sorry, doc. You just don't get it." Positive that she wouldn't have the nerve to fire, he raised the revolver once more, and staggered as the bullets tore into his body, the roar of the rifle echoing through the room.

Gillian walked over, weapon still in her hands, and kicked Hill's gun out of the way. "No, Roger," she said sadly. "You don't." She stared down at him as he lay stunned, wounds rapidly leaking blood on the hardwood floor. "You never did."

Jesse glanced over and made a snap decision. "Gillian. Get Paul in here so I can show him how to help with Steve. If I can slow Hill's bleeding, I may be able to keep him alive." He looked up at the frozen woman who had just shot a man in order to save his best friend's life. "Gillian."

She shuddered and focused on him. "I heard you, Jesse."

He hoped he sounded more composed than he felt. "Good. After that, I want you to go use Hill's radio, get Medevac or whoever the equivalent is around here. Every second counts."

She nodded and ran off. In a few seconds, Paul appeared, eyes wide, but surprisingly calm. Jesse quickly showed him what to do, grateful for the boy's quick wits and quiet steadiness, and turned his attention to the wounded sheriff. "Okay, Roger," he breathed. "Hold on. You're going to make it."

Gillian was back in a few minutes, and dropped to her knees beside Jesse. "Twenty minutes to half an hour," she reported breathlessly. "Weather's still pretty bad. But they'll be here. What can I do to help?"

Jesse gave her a quick smile before returning his attention to his patient. "Get the rest of the pressure bandages out of my bag. We need those for the worst of it -- the rest we'll pad and wrap. As soon as I get him stable, I need to check on Steve." He flicked a glance at his young assistant. "How's he doing, Paul?"

"The bleeding's not as bad, Dr. Travis. And I think he passed out."

"I wish," came a blurred voice. "Jess -- what the hell happened?"

"Hill was about to shoot you," Jesse replied grimly. "Gillian took a rifle to him."

Steve winced. "Ouch. How is he?"

"Alive, for now. But both of you are bleeding pretty substantially." Jesse spared another glance in Steve's direction before concentrating on Hill once more. "Medevac's on its way. In the meantime, I want you to rest quietly. I'm going to check you as soon as I finish with Hill. How badly are you hurting?"

Steve considered the question perhaps a shade longer than Jesse would have liked. "I've felt worse."

Jesse shook his head. "Tell me the truth, Steve. Then I'll let you know if I'm going to give you anything."

His friend tried to chuckle, but it hurt too much, and he conceded the point. Besides, he had never been able to keep that type of information from Jesse very successfully. "Bad, Jess."

Jesse grimaced. "Thought so. Hang in there, buddy. Let me get Hill under control, and I'll fix you up."

Several exhausting minutes later, Jess watched as the sedative took effect and Steve's eyes closed, then scrubbed his hands across his face wearily. "That's it. Now we just need to keep them stable till Medevac gets here." Impulsively, unconcerned by Paul's presence, he reached out to draw Gillian close and kiss her soundly. "Thank you."

Paul's eyes widened again, then he laughed. "It's about time, Dr. Travis!" He grinned as they turned shocked expressions in his direction. "I knew you were going to kiss my mom sooner or later; you kept smiling at her with your eyes."

Jesse grinned. "Can't fool the kids, can we?" He would have said more, but the welcome sounds of helicopters made themselves heard, and Paul went swiftly to open the door at his mother's nod. Before the room filled with emergency personnel, Gillian smiled at Jesse and returned the kiss. "We'll definitely pursue this," she promised, eyes sparkling.


	12. Bedside Manner

Jesse helped himself to a cup of coffee, sank into a chair, and contemplated the doctors' lounge phone thoughtfully, considering his approach. The ER resident on duty had graciously accepted his offer of assistance. Jesse had then watched anxiously as Steve went through surgery to repair the damage, and subsequently ensured he was resting as comfortably as could be expected. That done, he had checked on Hill's condition, which, as he reported to the distressed Gillian soon afterwards, was stable for the time being, but his prognosis was fairly guarded. Now for the truly difficult part; taking a deep breath, he picked up the telephone.

Mark was in Amanda's office when his cell phone rang, and was singularly unimpressed by Jesse's overly casual greeting. "Hi, Jesse. What's happened to Steve?"

There was a pause while Jesse muttered to himself and counted to ten, not quite aloud. "How do you do that?" he complained rhetorically.

"Jesse --" Mark's tone had sharpened, but he waited, knowing the younger doctor wouldn't bandy words about wasting time. He had had his doubts about the excursion after listening to Steve's proposed plan, but had held his peace, (now) correctly assuming that it would not end up being quite as uncomplicated as either of the two intrepid adventurers had anticipated.

"We're at Weed Medical Center. Steve's stable, but he's looking at a few more days of care."

"You want me to come up and charm them into transferring him?" Mark inquired.

Jesse mumbled to himself again. "How about I just put the phone to my forehead, and you can just absorb everything through osmosis?"

Mark laughed. "Sorry, Jess." He sobered. "What happened?"

Jesse took a deep breath and shot from the hip. "We ran into this guy Hill --"

"Roger Hill?" Mark exclaimed, alarmed.

"Yeah." Jesse assumed, correctly, that Mark was unlikely to forget the name. "They had a couple of go-rounds, but basically the worst is that Steve took a sizeable knife wound in his left side. Muscle and peritoneum were penetrated, but it didn't go much farther, thank God."

As calmly as possible under the circumstances, Mark commented, "I assume he's serious rather than critical, or you would have mentioned it."

"Yes. They're taking very good care of him here, but I'm pretty sure he's going to want to come home. And you know how he can get."

Mark chuckled. "Pigheaded. I know. Okay, Jesse, let me figure out connections, and I'll be there as soon as I can. Give me the number there, and I'll call you with the details."

Amanda hung up her phone just as he signed off. "I've got you on a flight to Redding via San Francisco. It's about an hour away from Weed. Get Jesse to pick you up around five."

Mark stared at her in amazement. "How --?"

Amanda laughed. "I learned from the master. Tell me what's happening, Mark."

He gave her a quick hug. "Walk with me, and I'll fill you in."

A scant few hours later, Mark stood by his son's bedside, watching him sleep. He had been briefed by the attending physician and reassured that Steve's prognosis was good. Additionally, the chief of staff turned out to be an old acquaintance, who agreed readily to the transfer to Community General, provided Steve's condition did not change for the worse in the next few hours. After being given an abridged version of their adventures, Mark had sent an exhausted Jesse off to get some rest himself; now he contemplated Steve's bruised face and wondered with a small sigh whether he was ever going to be able to get used to the danger which seemed to constantly surround his son.

The sound must have filtered into the sleeping man's consciousness; a small frown creased Steve's forehead briefly, then smoothed out as he sank back deeper into the drugged slumber. Mark sighed again, noiselessly this time, and left in search of fresh coffee. It was going to be a long night.

He had been back for some time, then slipped out to chat with the nurse just outside the door, when Steve awoke. Puzzled, the injured man blinked at his surroundings, confused by the peculiar combination of unfamiliar walls and the faint lingering trace of his father's aftershave. "Dad?" he called softly, reluctant to pitch his voice too loudly until he knew where he was. He turned his head to see the doorway, flinched in shock at the unexpected pang in his shoulder and neck, then gasped as the movement pulled at the torn muscles in his side.

His father heard both the call and the small, reluctant sound of pain, and came back in hurriedly. "Easy, son. You've got a side full of stitches; exercises are going to have to wait."

"Dad?" Steve made an effort to focus eyes which were disinclined to cooperate. "Where --?"

"You're at Weed Medical Center," Mark replied. "Don't try to talk too much. You need to rest."

Steve started to shake his head, then abruptly thought better of it. "How -- what happened, anyway?"

His father gave him a sympathetic look. "What do you remember, son?"

He thought about it for a minute, wishing he could think more clearly. "Last thing I remember is Jesse giving me something to make me sleep."

Mark ruminated. "If I recall what he told me correctly, that was yesterday afternoon."

His son picked up on the implication. "And it's now --?"

"About nine-thirty at night a day later," Mark said gently. "You've been here since last night."

Steve still looked puzzled. "So what happened, Dad?"

"As far as I can determine from what Jesse said," his father replied, "You and Roger Hill got into a major knock-down drag-out."

His best friend's absence finally registered. That explained the faint sense of wrongness -- "Where's --" he started to ask, still having trouble dealing with the thickness of his tongue.

"I'm here," came Jesse's voice, as the other man entered rapidly, running a hand automatically through hair which was still standing up in arbitrary spiky bits.

Mark glanced at him critically. "I thought I told you to get some rest."

Jesse was already leaning over his patient, who tolerated the quick exam with surprising patience. "I'm fine, Mark. I slept for a few hours, that's all I needed." His gaze flickered over the IVs. "How are you feeling, Steve?"

"Confused," Steve muttered. "What the hell happened, Jess?" Last thing I remember is dossing down by the fireplace for a nap."

Jesse glanced questioningly at Mark, who shook his head. "He just woke up."

The young doctor hooked a chair over with his foot and dropped into it. "You and Hill went at it after he left himself in through Gillian's back door."

"I take it he had a knife," Steve said dryly.

"A large one," Jesse agreed cautiously.

"And?"

A wary look flitted across Jesse's face. "And what?"

"And I was clumsy enough to get in its way several times?" Steve asked caustically.

A fascinated Mark could have sworn Jesse twitched slightly, but he held his peace. "Several times?"

Steve sighed. "Jess, I've come into contact with knives before. At least three that I can distinctly feel."

"Uh -- yeah."

This particularly unhelpful answer did elicit a startled reaction from Mark, and his son noticed. "There's something you're not telling me, Jess." He saw the other man's eyes slide towards the IV, and shook his head enough to make his point without agitating shoulder muscles. "Make one move towards that IV, and so help me, Jess, I'll get out of bed and throttle you. What the hell happened?"

Mark laid a mildly restraining hand on his arm. "Calm down, Steve." A level look at Jesse, who was still visibly uncomfortable. "Jesse tried to stop Hill, and you essentially got in the way when Hill went for him."

If he hadn't been more or less immobilized by bandages over most of his upper body, Steve would have made good on his threat. As it was, he managed to vent briefly before the inevitable coughing set in. "Jess, what the hell were you thinking --"

His father helped him sit up enough to allow the sputtering to subside, then eased him back and turned the severe look his way. "Steve, before you get too enthusiastic about berating Jesse for his admittedly reckless behavior, you might want to thank him for trying to save your life."

"It's all right, Mark," Jesse interjected. "Really. Steve was trying to protect me -- and he's probably right. I wasn't thinking -- I just wanted it to stop."

Steve opened his mouth to add a blistering comment, then changed his mind in light of his father's stern expression and Jesse's hangdog look. "Ah, it's all right, Jess. I do appreciate what you were trying to do. Besides," he added, voice slurring slightly as exhaustion started to set in, "I'm assuming you were responsible for getting me here more or less in one piece."

Jesse relaxed. "Well, the EMTs and Paul helped. Sorry we couldn't keep you awake for the helicopter ride."

Steve looked startled. "Paul was there?"

Jesse sighed. "Okay. I'll give you a quick recap, and then I want you to rest. We can take you home once Dr. Brightman signs off on you, but he's not going to do that unless you're stable, which isn't going to happen if you're too excited."

Steve grimaced. "I won't argue with you, Jess. Just tell me what else happened." He was obviously focusing with an effort, and Jesse gave him a terse summary of the preceding events. By the time he was finished, Steve's eyes were closed, and his breathing had deepened, but then he spoke suddenly, startling the others.

"What about Hill?"

Jesse pinched the bridge of his nose, sensing an imminent headache. "Latest news is he's in critical condition. He'll live, but there's a bullet dangerously close to his spine, and Brightman's not committing himself whether he'll walk again." He waited, but there was no comment. "Steve?"

The heavy eyelids lifted briefly; the blue underneath was cold. "I think I want to sleep now, Jess." The tone of voice was equally chilly, and Jesse took the hint.

"Okay, buddy. I'll check in on you later." He glanced at Mark, who nodded. "Join me for a cup of coffee?"

Safely out of earshot, Jesse said worriedly, "That was weird. It was like he'd, you know --"

"Consigned Hill to the nethermost regions of hell," Mark finished. "There's a lot of bad history there, Jess."

Jesse made a face. "I guess. He really didn't tell me much, just that Hill had tried to kill him, and Steve was essentially responsible for turning him in."

Mark waited until they had reached the lounge and helped themselves to coffee before he continued. "It was somewhat more complicated than that, Jesse. Hill was Steve's first partner after he made detective. He more or less took Steve under his wing, helped him learn the ropes."

"Oh. Kind of a mentor, huh?"

Mark nodded. "Finding out about Hill's sideline was very difficult for Steve. He knew what he had to do, but he was reluctant to follow through on it. Then Hill made the decision for him, and very painfully." He stirred his coffee absently as he talked, eyes distant, then refocused on his fascinated audience. "Steve felt personally betrayed. I think he had still hoped, right up to the day Hill ambushed him, that Roger would do the right thing, so he wouldn't have to make that terrible choice."

The remoteness returned to his face briefly, then dissipated. "They were possibly as close as you and I, Jess. He took it very hard."

Jesse shook his head. "And we have to run into him, of all people. That does it, Mark. No more lamebrained plans, hasty schemes. Every time I have an idea, I get Steve into trouble."

Mark chuckled. "Don't be ridiculous, Jesse. Steve's more than capable of finding it all by himself." He sobered abruptly. "Let's hope at least this is the last we will ever see of Roger Hill."

It looked like Mark was going to get his wish the next morning. A more-rested Steve had been cleared for the trip back to Los Angeles after promising to be checked directly into Community General without any fuss. Mark and Jesse were in the process of thanking Dr. Brightman, the nurses and the ER team when Gillian arrived with her son.

"Oh, good. I was afraid we were going to miss you," she exclaimed.

Jesse gave her a hug, winking at Paul's customary wide-eyed grin, then flushed at Mark's raised eyebrow and made hurried introductions. The older man clasped the small fingers of the delicately featured woman who obviously had caught Jesse's attention, then shook hands solemnly with Paul, succeeding in locating a quarter in the delighted child's hand. "I understand I have both of you to thank for saving my son's life," he said warmly. "And are you all right, Mrs. Tolliver?"

"Gillian," she said automatically, responding instinctively to the kindness in his eyes and voice. "I think so. I mean, at least Roger's still alive. I don't know how I would have handled being responsible for his death." The sea eyes shadowed momentarily, then cleared as she glanced over at his companion. "Jesse, I've set up an appointment for Paul's tests in two weeks. Will you monitor them?"

Jesse's eyes lit; this time the embrace was longer and somewhat more involved. Seeing an impish look slide across the boy's face, Mark took Paul aside quickly. "How about I teach you how to make the quarter disappear again?"


	13. Full Circle

"Thanks, Jess." Steve leaned back cautiously against the pillows, careful to avoid jarring his abused body. "Never thought I'd be glad to be at Community General."

Jesse grinned. "You just like the food."

Steve laughed, then winced. "Ouch. Can't do that, hurts too much." He looked over at his friend, and his grin faded. "Jess, I'm sorry."

"For what?" Jesse asked, startled.

Steve grimaced. "For spoiling your adventure, and giving you such a hard time, especially when you had to spend most of it saving my skin to one degree or another."

The corner of the younger man's mouth crooked upward. "Forget about it, big guy. If you're going to muddle through the new and unexpected, I'm your man. Besides," he added wickedly, "it did have some redeeming value for me at least."

"Still interested in the widow Tolliver, are you?" Steve laughed again, and swore as the same recalcitrant set of muscles objected vociferously.

Jesse rose smartly from his chair. "As a matter of fact, I have a phone call to make," he said, not quite in a rush. "Don't do anything too rash, okay?" he remarked, and made his exit before his irascible patient could object further.

Mark stuck his head in just in time to catch his son muttering to himself. "Something wrong?" he inquired.

Steve looked slightly taken aback. "No, Dad, just -- thinking out loud."

His father raised an eyebrow, but didn't pursue the matter. "How do you feel, son?"

"I'll live, Dad." Steve smiled at his father affectionately. "Why don't you go get some sleep? I'll be all right."

Mark nodded absently and plunked himself down in one of the chairs anyway. "Steve -- about Roger Hill --"

His son's mouth twisted. "I should have listened to you then."

"You couldn't have known, son," Mark said gently. "You did the best you could."

Steve shook his head. "No. It wasn't enough. I waited too long, and I left it unfinished." He glanced at his father ruefully. "Watersheds and incomplete circles. Whatever happened to just living life one day at a time, Dad?"

Mark grunted. "Destiny's a funny thing. Sometimes you outrun it, sometimes you don't." He would have said more, but Steve's choked-off exclamation caught him by surprise. "What is it, son?"

Steve wore an odd expression. "Didn't Jesse tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"Come on, Dad," Steve said skeptically. "You're just pulling my leg, aren't you?"

Mark frowned. "What are you talking about? I don't understand."

Disbelief was starting to creep into Steve's eyes. "You're asking me to believe that Jesse didn't tell you where we were," he said flatly.

His father reflected, then shook his head. "If he did, I don't remember. Why?"

Steve still looked incredulous. "A little town stuck somewhere in the late nineteenth century -- named Destiny."

Mark blinked. "Pure coincidence, don't you think?"

"Coincidence or no coincidence, this time I'm not going to leave things up to fate." Steve's face hardened. "This is three times Roger Hill has tried to kill me, Dad. Even I have my limits."

"You've decided to press charges, then," Mark said softly.

"Yes." Steve inhaled as deeply as his varied wounds would allow, and exhaled slowly. "Yes, I have."

"Have what?"

Even if he hadn't looked deliberately, it would have been impossible for Mark to miss the sudden light in his son's eyes as Cheryl came through the doorway. Maybe now the boy would finally get around to saying something, he thought hopefully. He reached down for Steve's good hand and held it briefly. "I'll check on you later, son. Don't keep Cheryl up too long."

Steve returned Mark's smile, grateful as always for such a tangible reminder of his father's regard. "I won't, Dad," he said equally affectionately. "Thanks for bringing me home."

After Mark left, Cheryl turned a quizzical eye upon her partner. "How are you feeling, Steve? And what is it you were saying you have --"

He gestured at the chair, then reached for her hand. "Decided to press charges against Roger Hill -- come full circle on a bad, unresolved part of my life."

She hadn't yet objected to the touch of his fingers, and her own were cool and reassuring. "And -- to acknowledge something which has been staring me in the face for a long time."

Somewhat taken aback by the sudden intensity in his tone, Cheryl kept her own light. "Which is?"

His grip tightened slightly, not uncomfortably so. "You. I guess someone would have been more appropriate, but -- Cheryl, I love you. Predictably, unknowingly, and any other way you look at it -- you're the person I want to share my life with."

Fascinated, she would have let him continue to babble, but the effort had left him out of breath, so she opted for a different response. "Since you're more or less helpless," she quipped, and leaned forward to kiss him. "I love you too," she whispered.

Bandages, IVs, general awkwardness of his position notwithstanding, Steve Sloan reached up with his good arm and pulled her close, reflecting as their lips met again that perhaps destiny might, under the right circumstances, be a good thing to meet head on after all.


End file.
